If I Could
by Evendim
Summary: Boromir and Faramir have been summoned by their father, Denethor, but as the brothers ride unescorted to the Tower of Guard, tragedy strikes.
1. Chapter 1

**If I Could**

**By Evendim**

_This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based upon the works of J.R.R. Tolkien_

**This is a re-write of one of my earlier stories: 'Love Is the Drug' which I decided to resurrect for Ithil-Valon, who professed it to be her favourite.**

**ooOoo**

_If I could  
I'd protect you from the sadness in your eyes  
Give you courage in a world of compromise  
Yes, I would  
If I could  
I would teach you all the things I've never learned  
And I'd help you cross the bridges that I've burned  
Yes, I would  
If I could  
I would try to shield your innocence from time  
But the part of life I gave you isn't mine  
I've watched you grow  
So I could let you go  
If I could  
I would help you make it through the hungry years  
But I know that I can never cry your tears  
But I would  
If I could_

_Osgiliath: Fortress of the Stars. 3015, Third Age_

Boromir was pacing the ramparts. Pausing momentarily, he borrowed a spyglass from the Officer of the Watch in order to scan the horizon. Passing the object back to its owner, the Captain General slammed one gauntleted fist into the open palm of his other hand, a sign of agitation to those who knew him well.

"Where _is_ he," Boromir muttered, at the same time pushing his blond hair out of his eyes, yet another trait that betrayed Boromir's emotional state.

"Patience, he has many leagues to cover, and all of them upon foot, let us not forget," said Ancir, the only son and heir of Forlong of Lossarnach, and Boromir's Adjutant.

"We are losing the advantage of daylight, and I would not wish to be abroad betwixt here and Minas Tirith after nightfall, especially as we must ride without an escort to avoid attracting undue attention," said Boromir.

"Then postpone the journey," said Ancir, "send to the Citadel; inform the Steward that you and Captain Faramir shall defer travelling tonight due to increased enemy activity. It would not even be a falsehood, for the fleas of Mordor are, indeed, 'hopping' tonight!"

"It is a goodly plan, if flawed," said Boromir, "for the Steward shall merely enquire how it was that the messenger gained the city in safety!"

Ancir shrugged, hauled his black service cloak closer to his chilled body, and uttered a non-committal: "…meh!"

"My lord…!" A newcomer pressed a closed fist against his heart in salute, and then he cast another shadow over Boromir's already stygian day. "Your mount, sir, I regret…"

"He has not dumped my esquire in the horse trough again?" Boromir asked, this latest self-taught trick of Fedranth's had not re-surfaced in two full days, and was therefore overdue a reprise.

"No, he has thrown a shoe, sir, the front near, and the smith regrets he must pack the hoof, and allow the swelling to reduce, before re-shoeing him."

"Oh, Eru, give a mere mortal some respite," said Boromir. "Well, don't just stand there, man, there must be some other mount I may ride!"

"As his lordship wishes," said the irked sergeant as he strode away to comply with his commander's order.

"You are becoming truly un-_bori_-ble now," Ancir rebuked.

"What…? Do not start, we already have more jesters than any one unit deserves, beginning with that stupid great oaf of a horse, Fedranth. I would render him down for glue, but there is not a vat big enough to take the great clown!"

"You do not mean that, you are merely fractious because you are anxious about your brother's safety," said Ancir.

"I am always anxious about my brother's safety, but that does not mean I would not like to be shot of that great hairy-eared lunatic," said Boromir.

"He is a big boy," Ancir reasoned.

"Seventeen hands high is the usual height of a stallion of Rohan," Boromir stated.

"I was referring to Faramir," said Ancir.

"Ah, yes, Faramir. I still remember the first time I held him. I was just five years old. I know, it is likely sad, but there it is, I vowed in that instant always to protect him, and I still try to keep my vow, even though at thirty and two years he has no need of any man's protection," Boromir replied.

"Yonder," said Ancir as he pointed out the approach road, encouraging Boromir to sight along his arm, the easier to locate two stealthy figures making their way into the city ruins.

"Thank Eru, he is alive and well," said Boromir. "I ought to kill the tiresome little whelp for scaring me like this."

"You are not your father, why must you invent an excuse to conceal from Faramir how very much he means to you? Hurins…!" Ancir shook his head in despair.

Boromir shot his Adjutant a heated glare, and then he took up his briefly discarded gauntlets, and strode towards the stairway leading down from the Ramparts.

"Well, you asked me to always keep you honest, is it my fault that the truth struck too close to home?" Ancir asked as he followed on undaunted.

ooOoo

The city was little more than a ruin now, and the incumbent Steward of Gondor, Denethor, was fielding an ever decreasing army, with ever increasing borders to protect. Likely he wished to discuss with his sons his growing concern over Ithilien, and the upsurge in attacks being launched into the Moon lands from Harad. Just how summoning Captain Faramir of the Ithilien Rangers to attend the Steward in the Citadel, thereby depriving the Ithilien Brigade of her commander, helped their worsening situation Boromir was at a loss to understand.

"There you are!" Boromir said with evident relief, his breathing sketchy. "I had begun to think you had been captured, or worse."

"There _is_ no worse scenario, for death is preferable to capture, when one deals with Harad," said Faramir as he passed his longbow to his bodyguard, a handsome raven-haired man five years Faramir's senior, by the name of Damrod, before going down upon one knee out of deference to his elder brother's rank. Boromir raised Faramir with one hand beneath his elbow, and then the brothers were embracing quite openly, displaying the constancy of their love for one another. Their close bond had kept them both sane in the early years following on from the death of their mother, Lady Finduilas, at a mere thirty eight years, and they had become one another's mainstay.

"Father shall expect us to present ourselves before him tonight, but I am concerned we are setting out too late to reach the city before the Main Gates are closed against us. What do you think, brother?" Boromir asked.

"Forty miles, on fresh mounts, it is achievable," said Faramir. "I wish to get this interview over with as soon as it may be done, for the situation at the Refuge is grave indeed."

"Very well, if your instinct is to ride, then we shall ride," said Boromir,

"Lead me to my mount. Ancir, shall you see to it that Damrod is fed and quartered? I would be obliged!" Faramir said sincerely as he drew on his gloves and adjusted his sword to accommodate being in the saddle. "Dee, do not fret, all shall be well, I shall bite father's ear about our supply levels, and so this journey shall not be a total waste!"

"Remember, a dead hero is no use to the Ithilien Brigade!" Damrod said softly.

"I may be weary, but I am not suicidal," said Faramir. The two rangers embraced, they were best friends out with their professional roles, and although they hailed from opposite ends of the social order, they had formed a mutual respect and lasting bond. Without further ado, they broke apart, and Faramir hurried after his brother without a backward glance, for Dee was giving off negativity, and it was making Faramir anxious.

Ancir saw Boromir settled in the saddle of one of the cavalry pool mounts. Fedranth was craning his neck over the stable door, sensing that his earlier antics in kicking his stall to smithereens for attention just _might_ have backfired. Boromir's determination to ignore the Dunce was the worst form of punishment.

"Does he have a name?" Boromir asked, for he was making small talk to fill the pregnant pause in their conversation.

"Sirius," Ancir replied.

"The dog star, as opposed to the star dog, yonder," Boromir inclined his head towards his disgraced mount, refusing to acknowledge him beyond this.

"Point me at my noble steed, Ancir," Faramir requested as he hurriedly caught up to Boromir, noting the black pressed into service given Fedranth was incapacitated.

"His name is Cinders," Ancir relayed, "because he is toffee-coloured?"

"Cinders, well, it is original, and why are you and the Dunce divorced, brother?" Faramir asked as he settled his sword by his side, and gathered the reins.

"The Dunce is 'horse de combat'," Boromir said deadpan, and then he gave the black the Office, and they moved off towards the gates.

"I have a bad feeling," said Damrod, and Ancir gave a start. _Augh_, Rangers, one never heard them approach!

"I have that feeling each and every sunrise," said Ancir, "I used to think it was rheumatism, now I call it fear. Come on, Damrod, soup and a decent wine before the hearth, they are gone beyond our ability to aid them, and it is their duty at day's end."

"_There_ is a word I have come to loathe," said Damrod, and the two fell into companionable silence as they headed towards Boromir's makeshift quarters within a derelict mansion.

ooOoo

"We shall lose the light early, thank you, Mordor, for the outpouring of _fug_," Boromir complained bitterly.

Faramir, edging his chestnut closer to the docile black his brother rode, laughed aloud and replied: "It is not personal, brother, they do not especially stoke the forges each time you are required to ride home to Minas Tirith."

"You are enjoying this, you strange little ranger," Boromir observed, "Henneth Annun is not challenging enough?"

"It is more challenging than I care for, thank you, but you are not there, and I miss you," said Faramir.

"That is rather a sweet sentiment," said Boromir. "I have been known to miss you too, once in a while."

"Why does he want to see us do you suppose, brother?" Faramir had clearly exhausted his line of small talk, and needed to explore their father's mindset.

"Who may guess, but I suspect that Ithilien shall loom large in his agenda," Boromir replied.

They now rode in silence, for the demands of riding drove the breath from them both. Boromir suddenly gave a shudder, and Faramir picked up on it almost instantly. He, too, was feeling extremely anxious, for the atmosphere was oppressive, and Faramir feared they were being observed. The terrain between the garrison at Osgiliath and the Ramas Echor was largely open ground, but there were random stands of trees that were dense enough to give cover to marauding orc bands. With half the distance to the Tower of Guard already covered, the brothers had actually begun to believe they would dine with their father in the Merethrond, the great Hall of Feasting in the Citadel.

Suddenly Sirius, Boromir's mount, began to grow skittish, sweat formed along his sleek, arched, neck, and Boromir, a consummate rider, picked up on the danger almost instantly.

"There…on the left!" Boromir called above the drumming of their horses hooves. "Yrc…!"

"We can outrun them!" Faramir said with confidence, and Boromir nodded, for at that exact moment he believed his brother was right, and then Sirius squealed aloud, and dropped like a stone, for an orc arrow had struck his neck; a major artery had been severed, and the animal was dead as it fell to the turf, with Boromir trapped under its carcass!

Faramir wheeled Cinders back to his fallen companion, and all the while Boromir was yelling to his younger brother to ride on, to save himself, but Faramir of Ithilien had apparently been struck by loss of hearing, for he reached back to his bow, strung it speedily and with a practiced eye and hand, and then he reached back a second time; for his quiver.

TBC

A/N: The opening lyrics are an extract taken from 'If I could' by Barbra Streisand.


	2. Chapter 2

**If I Could**

**By Evendim**

_This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based upon the works of J.R.R. Tolkien_

**Chapter Two**

**The Meaning of Pain**

ooOoo

Boromir fully expected to die. The pain channelling through his entire right side was beyond bearing. Half a ton of dead horse was pinning him to the ground, and something major had most certainly snapped upon impact. Trying not to distract his brother, Boromir continued to take in great gulps of air, willing the nausea, the bile that rose in his gullet, to subside. He was no coward, he could bear pain, had, on many occasions, but the pain that seared his body was as naught to the pain that assailed his soul. His fear was all for the safety of Faramir.

"Oh, Eru, I have tried to be a good soldier, a good son, a good man, let me be a good brother, and allow me to die before he spends his life's blood protecting me. Take me, Gondor's one true God, let me pass beyond the veil, here, now, and by my passing, may my little one be spared! Hear my prayer, Eru, the One!"

"What?" Faramir called back over his shoulder, he was loosing arrows at a phenomenal rate, and missing but one target in ten, "I am somewhat occupied, hold the thought, brother, we may discuss it when I am less pressed!"

"Bloody rangers," Boromir snickered through his tears, "too conceited even to spare a man a moment in death!"

"Your mumbling is a distraction, you great fool! Be hush!" Faramir ordered.

"Be hush…gah…I made a mistake there; teaching him how to assume command has somehow left me redundant!" Boromir growled. "Oh, you were faithful in life, Sirius, how sad that in death you serve our enemies!"

"Eru," Faramir muttered as he took aim and removed one orcs left eyeball, "cut him out of the fight, and he tries to talk the enemy to death!"

"Straight…and true…little brother! Fire those shafts straight and true!" Boromir called out.

"Say's you, who could not hit a cow upon the arse with a stick!" Faramir laughed.

"The cow lied!" Boromir retorted.

"Leave this to the expert, there is a good soldier!" Faramir replied.

"Spit and have done, uppity little archer," said Boromir.

"Fight them from a safe remove, for it is the only way, see how they run? They are learning not to mess with an Ithilien Ranger!" Faramir called aloud.

"They should fight our war horses," Boromir giggled, ah, he was slipping into unconsciousness, and where was his disobedient little squab of a brother? "…Faramine!"

"Not now, wait but a moment longer, I do not want this last abomination…_argh_...to escape and go for…aid!" Faramir panted.

Done, and he had felled or maimed the enemy, and never had his bow sang more true! Taking up his sword, he now went to despatch the wounded, for it was the only decent thing to do. The soldiery of Gondor were not savages.

"Brother?" he said upon his return, wiping the black blood of Mordor from his prized blade with an oiled rag. "Boro-mine…?"

"Oh, but that hurt!" Boromir giggled.

"I think we may have a problem," said Faramir as he turned his head to hide his tears.

ooOoo

"Where are we, again?" Boromir asked through a haze of delirium.

"Where do you think we are?" Faramir countered.

"Uhm…Minas Tirith?" Boromir guessed.

"No fooling you, is there?" Faramir laughed. He was tying a rope to the pommel of the dead mount's saddle, he had to haul the carcass aside to examine Boromir's injuries, which he feared would be substantial.

"What are you…doing?" Boromir enquired.

"Practicing my knots," said Faramir, "it is a ranger thing,"

"Next up, lace making," Boromir snickered.

"No skill is a lost skill, I am learning that much each and every day," said Faramir. There, that ought to hold, and so long as the girth held when the tension was employed, the poor beast pinning his brother ought to be hauled free. Now to prepare the patient, oh, there was a misnomer!

"Boromir," said the ranger,

"That would be me, eh?" Boromir snickered. It was evident the General was out of his gourd from the pain.

"I need to move Sirius from off you, now, this will hurt, but there is no help for it, and so, just be your usual brave self!" Faramir pleaded.

"You never shall do it, not a skinny little archer like you," said Boromir.

"No, but the skinny little archer's horse shall!" Faramir predicted.

The last of the available light was fading, and Faramir needed to somehow move his brother to cover before the dawn betrayed their position. Hauling upon Cinders reins, the ranger coaxed the chestnut to take up the slack and haul away the body of his stable mate. How things were mixed with mercy. If Boromir had been riding Fedranth, if he had lost his beloved horse, oh, it did not bear thinking about! Cinders grunted as the solid weight behind him refused to budge. Throwing his own weight onto the rope, Faramir coaxed the weary animal to re-double his efforts. Slowly but surely the carcass of the black began to shift. Boromir bit back a cry of agony as the weight shifting atop his leg caused the broken femur to move. The edges of the shattered bone ground together, sending Boromir into a paroxysm of pain.

"Work with me brother, ride out the pain, we are almost there," said Faramir.

"We…?" Boromir giggled. "There is no use in trying to spare me, just have the animal haul upon the rope, and pay no heed if I use barrack room language, for it hurts like…F…Fedranth stepping upon ones toes!"

Faramir had to laugh, it was either that or cry, which would help neither of them! More determined hauling on the part of both Faramir and Cinders ensued, and the dead horse was free of Boromir's shattered femur.

Boromir bit back a cry of utter agony, and then he fainted.

"Whoa, Cinders, good horse, there, we are done for now, let me remove your saddle, and tie up your reins, and then you must ride like the wind to the Citadel! Home, Cinders, find your warm stable, and when you get there, they shall realize we are in need of aid! Good horse, have some sugar loaf. You hold our very lives in your ability to find your way home. Past the Ramas Echor, onwards to the city, and Eru speed your path!"

Faramir slapped the animal upon its rump, and watched as he took off into the night.

Cavalry mounts were stabled in the Citadel, if Cinders could find his way there, then aid would be despatched. If he somehow lost his way, then Boromir might die from shock.

"What a way to earn a living," sighed Faramir.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**If I Could**

**By Evendim**

_This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based upon the works of J.R.R. Tolkien_

**Chapter Three**

**Me and Thee**

**ooOoo**

"The trick to coping with pain," said Faramir as he bound tree branches together to form a litter, "is to ignore it."

"What benighted fool told you that?" Boromir asked with disbelief written across his face.

"You," said Faramir as he knotted the final tie.

"Ah, well that explains it, one of my encouraging little pep talks, one supposes," said the blond as he shifted to ease the pressure upon his leg.

"I have no idea, your lectures send me to sleep without fail," Faramir confessed.

"Oh, one would be wounded, if one had less pressing concerns," said Boromir, dripping sarcasm.

"This is where you get to put your theory to the test, for it shall hurt abominably when I move you, brother," said Faramir.

"You have not stopped careening about since we were attacked. Is it like this at Henneth Annun?" Boromir took refuge in small talk.

"No, some days it is quite hectic," said Faramir.

"Gah, you have all the healing skill of a cave troll, brother," said Boromir as Faramir used a section of rein from the dead mount's harness to bind his brother's legs together, remembering his training as an esquire, lifting the sound leg towards the injured one, and employing it to stabilize the broken limb.

"You know what our situation is without my having to explain it, Boromir. I would as soon not hurt you, but the available options make pain inevitable."

"You are meant to pad between the patient's knees and ankles," Boromir said with a superior air.

Faramir paused, clicked his fingers for effect, and then said drolly: "Why don't you wait here while I ride back to your billet in Osgiliath for a pair of cushions!"

"On this particular occasion, one is prepared to have one's kneecaps ground together," Boromir conceded.

"It is not as though you need them to grip your horse, now is it?" Faramir muttered acidly.

Now the banter was laid to one side, for Faramir had to lift his heavier sibling onto the make-shift litter, and the only way to do this was to manhandle him. Boromir fully understood their situation, and so he bit his lip, and bore the pain stoically, not wishing to add to Faramir's guilt over causing him suffering. The Chestnut harnessed to the litter stood as good as gold, almost as though he understood the young Captain needed his co-operation. Faramir had jury-rigged a linkage, again by using the reins from the dead gelding. Now that he had Boromir settled, he threw his own cloak over his brother, and took the saddlebags from off the felled black, which he now laid across Cinders' withers.

"One last detail, and then we shall haul you from the open ground into cover," said Faramir.

"Haul…one begins to feel like a log," said Boromir.

"My thought precisely as I manoeuvred you onto that litter," muttered Faramir.

"Pardon…?" Boromir cupped one hand behind one ear dramatically.

"I said it is time you considered getting fitter," Faramir lied.

"What exactly is this final detail?" Boromir enquired.

"I need to recover my arrows, now, lie there and do not make a sound, if you spook the horse he may take off at a gallop," Faramir then mischievously eyed up Cinders' load and amended his prediction: "…better make that a canter!"

ooOoo

Faramir had uncoupled the horse from the rudimentary litter, and the beast was now hobbled against taking flight, and grazing close by. Boromir had slipped into a light sleep; probably his body had shut down against the weight of the pain the man had to be suffering. Faramir was now feeling helpless, and hopeless, and the threat of a second attack was ever at the forefront of his mind. Would their father assume they had not left Osgiliath; or would he send out a patrol to search in case they were in danger? It was unlikely he would choose the latter course of action, and although they had the Horn of Gondor with them, (for Boromir lugged the stupid object about religiously; he claimed it amused the men) to sound it now would bring half of Mordor down upon them for certain, but would not summon the cavalry from Minas Tirith in time to aid them. Looking on the bright side, if he ran out of arrows Faramir could always beat the orcs about the maw with the ridiculous thing. Boromir grunted, and instantly Faramir swung about to check on his injured brother, and in that unguarded moment their eyes met, and they each extended a hand to be grasped by the other.

"I want you to get on that horse, and ride for the city!" Boromir said tersely, all humour now laid aside.

"I can not do that, brother," Faramir said immediately.

"I am your commanding officer, and I am issuing you with an order," said Boromir.

"While the balance of your mind is disturbed," said Faramir, "though how may one tell with you, you are as unbalanced as that oaf of a horse you ride."

Boromir suddenly began to weep, and only now did it occur to Faramir, that if Fedranth had not thrown a hissy fit and injured himself, he would be lying dead on the Pelennor.

"Hold onto reality, he is safe and sound, brother mine," Faramir said gently.

"In some ways that makes me feel even sadder, that some poor anonymous beast is lost to us, and who shall mourn his memory?" Boromir asked.

"We shall, for he was the saviour of me and thee!" Faramir said solemnly.

"Back to our origins brother, when mother died, and we were all alone, that is when we first coined that phrase," said Boromir, "Me and thee against the world!"

_And when one of us is gone,_

_And one of us is left to carry on,_

_Then remembering will have to do,_

_Our memories alone will get us through,_

_Think about the days of me and you,_

…_You and me against the world._

ooOoo

TBC

Lyrics are an extract from 'You and me against the world' by Helen Reddy. Apologies for a shorter update tonight, but family commitments at this time of year left me seriously short of time for writing.

There is a reason why the horse is still there and not in Minas Tirith. All shall be revealed. Some of my horse-wise readers might have already guessed.

I would like to wish you all 'A Happy and Prosperous New Year'.

Evendim


	4. Chapter 4

**If I Could**

**By Evendim**

_This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based upon the works of J.R.R. Tolkien_

**Chapter Four**

**Serendipity**

**ooOoo**

Faramir was brooding. Boromir had a fairly good idea as to what was upsetting his younger brother, but how to broach the subject, and yet not sound as though he was criticizing Faramir? Boromir was generally a 'straight to the point' individual, and so to alter the habit of a lifetime would only alert the younger man to his brother's avoidance of the subject.

"You were not to know," said Boromir.

"Oh, that's alright then," Faramir retorted, flagging up instantly that Boromir had, indeed, guessed what was eating at the younger man.

"That Cinders is not normally stabled in Minas Tirith? He is numbered amongst the pool of horses maintained at Osgiliath. It was a reasonable assumption to make, and so when he came back to us, because he did not know where he was meant to go…look at it this way, brother, how could you have pulled me to safety and cover on the litter without his aid? It was pure _serendipity_; a happy accident?"

Boromir saw Faramir duck his head even further. The ranger had been so eager to get aid to Boromir that he had not stopped to consider the possibility that the animal might not actually know the way to Minas Tirith. The chestnut had ran ahead for a while after Faramir tied up his reins, removed his saddle, and slapped his rump, and then he had come to a halt, and, not recognising the terrain, had turned about and came back the way he had gone.

"I am angry at myself for sending the horse off in the first place. I had not thought our situation through. Damrod _never_ would have been caught napping like that!" Faramir exclaimed.

"Damrod is not here, you are, and you did what you believed to be right in the circumstances. Cinders may yet have a large part to play in this crisis, brother. It is fortunate he returned to us; he might have wandered until he strayed into enemy hands, and then they would have been alerted to our predicament," said Boromir.

"Oh, Eru, I had not even thought of that scenario, there is no excuse for a commander to have _so_ forgotten his training! I broke the number one rule; I allowed my heart to rule my head!" Faramir lamented.

"Never trust a man who is without compassion," said Boromir. "One ought not to wield power, when one has no conscience, for men's lives are the weapons we deploy, you and I, and we ought not to spend such precious tokens mindlessly."

"All that I know about leading men, I have learned from you," said Faramir as he once more reached for his brother's hand, for he had a premonition that something evil was going to befall both of them, which feeling was fuelling his unaccustomed clinginess.

"No, for you are Denethor's son, and that man has forgotten more about leadership than we _both_ of us shall ever learn," said Boromir.

"You are cold, Boromir," said Faramir.

"There is a chill in the air, and as for my leg, why, I cannot feel my toes," Boromir laughed.

Instantly Faramir stripped back the cloak layered over his brother, and now was pressing upon the boot on the General's right leg. It ought to have caused Boromir to call out, but he seemed not to be aware that Faramir was touching him. Faramir's growing anxiety was now justified. He was going to have to manipulate the broken limb to re-establish the blood flow, if he did not, this leg would be destined for the surgeon's saw, and that would be unbearable for a man with Boromir's passion for soldiering.

"You are going to lose a boot, brother," said Faramir as he liberated his knife from his belt.

"I have only now gotten them broken in, do not dare, squab," said Boromir.

"It is the boot, or the foot, choose!" Faramir demanded.

"Mind the under drawers, they are barely worn, I have just gotten them to the stage of wear that I favour," said Boromir, attempting to calm Faramir by employing humour.

"Spare me the mental picture, brother; I am trying to concentrate, for this knife is razor sharp, Damrod, again!" Faramir believed in giving credit where it was due.

"He is quite a find, Damrod," Boromir mused.

"He sticks closer to my hide than a scab to a sore, you had to have laid it on the line that you expected him to throw his all into being my bodyguard," said Faramir, mostly he was distracting Boromir from the sound of a well-honed blade slicing an obscenely expensive doe-skin riding boot, but he was speaking the truth, for Damrod's remit had been just that, to shadow Faramir at all times, and preserve his life even at the cost of Damrod's own.

"I have to take this boot off, brother, you might wish to bite on something," said Faramir.

"Steak and eggs would be nice," said Boromir.

Boromir used a gauntlet to bite upon when the pain hit, he dared not call out for the sound could attract the enemy, and besides, he did not wish to burden Faramir with the knowledge he was suffering. The boot parted company with the broken leg just as Boromir slipped into unconsciousness. His head lolled back onto the saddle which had been removed from the chestnut, and he lay there, supine, as Faramir set about re-aligning the bones, hearing the edges grate as they slid into place, and now Faramir permitted himself a moment alone, moving away from their embryo camp, needing to lose his last meal, for the sensation of bone sliding over bone under his hands had been nauseating. A moment or two to rally, and he was back to work, binding the limb into place, having first ensured the foot was warming, given the blood was now free to circulate once more. The sliced legs of the cord leggings, and the red flannel drawers were layered back into place to keep his brother warm, and even the wreckage of the boot helped to stop the night air reaching Boromir's flesh. Layering his cloak back into place atop his unconscious brother, Faramir decided that they both would need a hot drink to help combat the cold, and, in Boromir's case, shock. It would have to be a small fire, well confined, and it would need to be kept to a minimum or the glow would reflect against the night sky. He had performed this task so many times that the ranger worked without conscious thought. Why had no-one realised they were missing? Denethor had been most specific in his demand they both attend him that night. Surely when they had not arrived before the city was sealed for the night he had become curious as to what had befallen them? Digging through their discarded saddlebags, Faramir unearthed two small tin canisters from his own kit, one was filled with sugar in loaf form, the other held tea leaves. Next he dug out a tin mug, and a spoon. Tea, just what they needed. Setting water to boil in the mug, Faramir now checked the contents of his brother's saddlebags and came up with a compass, a map, a knife in a leather scabbard, and some dried beef strips wrapped in an oil cloth pack to keep them fresh. They would not dine high on the hog as they had expected to tonight, but neither would they starve. Best of all, he had just discovered a small packet of herbs which would alleviate his brother's pain. This night was fast becoming one of the longest in Faramir's entire military career. What they would do when night gave way to day he had not notion. If help did not come soon, the enemy would look for their own overdue patrol, and he and Boromir were living on borrowed time as it was.

Shock, and growing delirium, had sent Boromir off into a deep, but restless, sleep, in which he was reliving a scene from the past pertinent to their experiences here on the Pelennor. It had to be so much talk about Damrod and the man's qualities that had triggered the dream, dragging to the forefront of Boromir's mind a clandestine meeting with the man just as Faramir was due to take up tenure at Henneth Annun.

_Flashback - Minas_ _Tirith_

Boot heels beat a resounding tattoo upon the marble floor of the great chamber, and the man awaiting the arrival of this newcomer knelt upon one knee, and dipped his head reverently.

"Arise, Knight of Gondor, and a thousand times welcome," said the man who had summoned this visitor to the White City. The traveller was likewise robed, only his robes were fashioned from black silk trimmed with scarlet, whilst the one who had so graciously welcomed him was robed in scarlet with black trim, the combination of these colours represented the livery of Numenor. "You know why you are summoned; your sponsor has explained the task which I wish to assign to you?"

"Aye, my lord," said the man in an instant, and there was no hesitation in the voice of this noble soul who had answered the call to arms in a heartbeat.

"My reason for appointing you to this commission is undoubtedly born of altruistic motives, but it is undeniable that the preservation of your Charge is equally important to me on a personal level. By protecting my brother, you shall set my mind at ease, the better to order our defences. Also, let us not forget that he shall fill my shoes if I should fall, by whatever means, and so it is imperative that one of the Sons of the Citadel is preserved until 'He' returns to claim his crown. I must ask you one final time, do you freely accept the task I now lay upon you; as a noble, and knight of this order, upon your oath, until I, or death, release you? Do you so swear?"

"Most willingly, _Ostohir_, so do I swear, by my alias, which is Noble Hammer, I shall protect my lord until you release me, or death take me. Upon my sword, I pledge this oath," said the man as he placed his hand upon the pommel of his sword which was adorned with… the White Horse of Rohan.

"Then I shall accept your oath, most gladly, as Ostohir, _Fortress_ _Master_, and head of this Order, and may you be known as Damrod, from this day forth until the need for your service is over. Lower your hood, sir knight," said Boromir, for now that the formalities were completed he wished to look into the eyes of the man who would be Faramir's Body Guard in Ithilien.

A noble face was unmasked, broad, with steady eyes, blue, like the deepest night over Rohan, and this was where this noble hailed from, for Boromir did not fully trust the nobles of the fiefdoms of Gondor in these treacherous days. He had turned to his Shield Brother, Theodred of Rohan, to nominate one of his own Riders as Faramir's personal guard, and this was the chosen man. He was handsome, with steady eyes, and a quirky sense of humour, if that tug at the corner of his lips was an indicator. But above all, trusted!

Boromir checked for a tiny star, symbolic of the star-shaped Isle of Numenor, branded upon the inner wrist of the man's right hand, as it was upon each and every knight of this secret order, and found it concealed under a leather bracer. Nodding in approval, Boromir now exhaled a long-held breath, here was one of his own, one of the elite 'Thangail Dinen', the 'Silent Shield', the Secret Service of Gondor.

"Some wine, Damrod, to welcome you to your new unit," said Boromir.

"So," said the man, in a resonant voice, steady and unshakeable to Boromir's trained ear, "this is the famous Star Chamber! A toast, to my lord, Faramir of Ithilien, may Bema…_Eru_…be pleased to watch over his sweet soul!"

"You need a new sword, friend, army issue, for the White Horse upon your pommel shall be your undoing!" Boromir stated.

"Then I shall give this fair _brand_ into your personal care, Ostohir," said Damrod as he surrendered his weapon graciously.

ooOoo

**Present**

Boromir came awake with a start, and his head was swimming with the dream which had been so real it had left him with the scent of incense in his nostrils, and the taste of the red wine he and Damrod had drank to toast Faramir, still in his mouth. Turning his head, his eyes met those of his brother, and Faramir had a strange expression upon his face.

"You called out, brother, you named _Bema_, how odd," said Faramir.

"I dreamt of Theodred, it is likely an unconscious connection, is there water, brother?" asked Boromir.

"I have brewed tea, it shall warm you, and, I discovered some herbs in my saddlebags that shall ease your pain, they are bitter, and so I have added mint to the brew," said Faramir.

"Pain relieving herbs, eh," Boromir was delighted to hear of their existence. "Whose foresight saw those packed?"

"Damrod is the only candidate," said Faramir, "he would not tolerate any other to pack such an item in my saddlebags. He mothers me like a hen with her chick."

Was it coincidence, imagination, or even possible that he, Boromir, had spoken Damrod's name aloud? For Faramir was guarded, inquisitive, of a sudden.

"He is a good man," said Boromir, between sips of tea as Faramir supported his head.

"One of the best," said Faramir, "the other is beside me now."

TBC

Please accept my thanks to all who reviewed, and private messaged for the last chapter. Given the time of year, and with family commitments, I likely did not reply to you all. I made an attempt with the early reviews, but today it came down to replies or this update. More soon!

Evendim

A/N: The alias 'Noble Hammer' comes from Dam = hammer, rod =noble.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**If I Could**

**By Evendim**

_This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based upon the works of J.R.R. Tolkien_

**Chapter Five**

**For Gondor**

**ooOoo**

"Whoever coined the phrase 'dead of night' knew what he was talking about," said Boromir.

"He…?" Faramir challenged.

"Do not pick over my words, you know what I mean, I am not being prejudicial to the fairer sex. Eru, but this is a scary situation to be in, it is the lack of ability to defend oneself that unmans me!" Boromir grumbled.

"I am here, petal, never fear; I shall protect…what _was_ that?" Faramir hissed as he came to his knees in a crouch to glance about them.

"That, o fearless one, 'my protector'," and now Boromir batted his lashes for effect, "was an owl upon the wing."

"It never was!" Faramir, Ranger extraordinaire, was mortified to be have been spooked by a mere owl.

"Yes it was," Boromir chuckled, "there beside you is an owl cast."

"Where is there?" Faramir was now peering at the ground in the available light from the meagre fire.

"Ah, he can shoot the pollen off a honey bee's fur at twenty ells, yet cannot find his own backside with both hands. Are _all_ archers visually impaired at close range?" Boromir snickered.

"It is no secret that my eyesight is sharpest over distance. Only _you_ would spot an owl cast in pitch darkness," said Faramir.

"It comes from sleeping upon the ground, mouse or bat bones under one's sleeping bag is seriously uncomfortable. Is there any more tea, brother?" Boromir would ask about the tea, and not say out loud that he was in pain. He was seeking to update on the pain relieving herbs, but would not say so for fear they were used up, and Faramir would feel he had let his brother down.

"I shall brew some for you especially," said Faramir.

"Whenever you have a moment," said Boromir, aiming for nonchalance, "it is for the warmth it provides, rather than my having an actual thirst."

"Tea is soothing in any circumstance," said Faramir. "I just now recalled that singing copper kettle in the Healers' apartments. The way it simmers over the spirit lamp, the inevitable seed cake in their larder, honey and white bread…oh, why do we not value what we have until it is snatched from us? Caranthir and Calgir are such special individuals and…tea!"

Boromir was smiling, stoically, but the laughter did not reach his eyes. He was clearly in agony, and fighting against it for Faramir's sake. Faramir had just shown his hand when he had alluded to the two _aces_ back in the city. His mind had been running along the lines that they urgently needed a healer's expertise. Boromir would not have missed this connection, he was much too astute, and besides, he had seen too many soldiers die from gangrenous wounds not to know that he needed urgent medical attention if his leg was to be saved, let alone his life. Working in silence, Faramir brought together the herbs and mint and settled beside his brother to aid him with drinking it.

"It is hot, take care not to scald your mouth, brother," said Faramir.

"Most welcome, and warming, thank you Faramine, it soon shall make me more comfortable. Once I have taken this, I want you to ride back to Osgiliath; for it is obvious to me no-one has missed us in the Citadel, and Ancir and Damrod have no way of knowing we never reached Minas Tirith. We cannot simply remain here doing nothing! Sooner rather than later the enemy will search for those orcs you killed, if only to understand what became of them. Please do not argue, brother, you know it makes sense," said Boromir.

"I know no such thing! I dare not leave you helpless like this! You could never defend yourself, Boromir, and do not order me, either, for you are in no condition to know your own mind. We face the danger together, brother mine, as always!" Faramir said defiantly.

"Pushy little squab," Boromir muttered.

"I wonder from where I get that trait?" Faramir snickered as he settled by Boromir's side, and drew his cloak over both of them.

"Get your nose out of my neck, it is freezing cold," said Boromir.

"You are such a wimp out of the public gaze. I am surprised you can hold up that banner of yours without taking splinters in your fingers!" Faramir teased.

"Hush!"

"I am teasing," said Faramir.

"No, I know, listen!" Boromir insisted.

"Ah, no, an enemy patrol!" Faramir hissed, and now he slithered down under cover of the cloak and kicked dirt over the banked fire.

ooOoo

_Osgiliath_

"I have to be insane to agree to this," said Ancir as he stepped up into Beren's saddle and gathered his reins.

"There is more at stake than your sanity," snapped Damrod, "I am telling you, they did _not_ reach the Tower of Guard!"

"How may you know this?" Ancir demanded, for even though he had now committed troops to a search, still he was unconvinced as to the wisdom of lowering the defences at Osgiliath to ride out on the say so of a member of another Company.

"Shall we debate this, or ride to the aid of the sons of the Steward?" Damrod demanded, and Ancir's jaw dropped open. Gone was mild-mannered, laid-back, Damrod of Henneth Annun, and in his stead was a man issuing orders to the right, and to the left, and doing so with consummate ease.

"Ride," said Ancir, "but we shall re-visit this conversation later!"

"I have no quarrel with you, my lord, but time squandered here is time lost in securing Gondor's chain of command!" Damrod stated.

"Master at Arms, sound the trot!" Ancir called aloud, and he and the troop of thirty riders which he had hastily assembled rode in a column of two out through the gates of Osgiliath. "This is your call to make, Sergeant Damrod, take the point!"

As the troop worked up to a gallop, Ancir found himself noticing for the first time just how well Damrod rode. The Rangers of Ithilien were infantry, they rarely had any horses at their disposal, and if they did, they would likely be for Anborn and Faramir's use. Why, the reason these two had been late to ride to the Citadel in the first place was because they had been forced to walk to Osgiliath from the Refuge. Ancir consigned this thought to the back of his mind, for he had to give his full attention to this enterprise in the slender chance they were indeed riding out upon a rescue mission.

_Pelennor_

The guttural accent of Mordor stole ever closer to the two brothers, concealed low to the ground under Faramir's Ranger cloak. The horse was beginning to fidget, sweat soaked his neck, and he was trying to break free of the leather hobbles. Faramir knew that he had to cut the animal free or he would betray their presence. It might even work to their advantage in a way. It might give the impression the horse was carrying a rider. The orcs were stupid as a rule, and these were not of sufficient bulk to be Uruk-hai. Drawing his knife, Faramir placed his lips against Boromir's ear and whispered: "I need to free Cinders! He shall betray us if I do not, for he scents, and fears, the orcs!"

Boromir knew that his brother was completely correct in his claim, but even so, his heart was lodged in his throat as he contemplated the deed Faramir had to accomplish. One of the many disciplines the Rangers excelled at was stealth, and Faramir was little more than a shadow as he lay flat and edged his way towards the frightened animal. Fortunately the horse had learned to trust these brothers, and so the gelding stood still, as the knife sliced through the length of leather rein hobbling his front legs, and the horse spun away, and galloped off, ironically, in the direction of Minas Tirith. Faramir bit back an oath. How typical was that of their run of luck? But logic told Faramir that the animal was not working from a sense of direction, but from the instinct of self-preservation. The foul creatures now working their way towards the brothers would have taken the horse down and eaten it. All too aware that he and Boromir might meet that same fate, Faramir was relieved to note that the galloping horse had drawn the orcs' attention.

"We may do no more for the creature. If he keeps heading towards Minas Tirith he shall out run them. If he turns back as he did before, they will kill and eat him!" Faramir said breathlessly.

"There is no sense in both of us being slaughtered," said Boromir, " make your way to the stand of trees behind us, they will see one horse galloping free, and find one rider, and even they shall be able to work out the math."

"Yes? How shall they account for the fact you are lying on a litter? 'Super Horse' made it 'ere he bolted?" Faramir demanded.

"Must you always pick holes in my plans?" Boromir demanded.

"Only the bad ones, brother, face it, we are destined to be together for whatever Eru has in store for us," said Faramir.

"Pass me my sword, I can still take a few of them with me," said Boromir.

"I shall use my bow as they come into range, to wait longer shall only allow some of them to rush us and break through," Faramir said in a low purr, dropping into Ranger mode instinctively.

"I said this was a bad idea from the outset. Only imagine the roasting father shall give us for this piece of ineptitude!" Boromir tried for humour, and more or less scored a hit, if only on an outer ring.

"You great fool," Faramir snickered, "what a time to worry over father's opinion of our efficacy!"

"Your pardon?" Boromir begged.

Faramir refused to buy into Boromir's idiot routine. "Keep that sword safe until it is needed, any orcs getting past me are yours to despatch. You cannot win in a straight head count, but you shall at least work up some sweat to warm you!"

"My sword can match your bow any day," Boromir said huffily.

"Good, for this is hardly the time for a competition," said Faramir as he laid out his recovered batch of arrows in readiness.

"It hardly is the time to say all that I wish to say to you either," said Boromir.

"There is no need, we have ever been in accord, brother," Faramir said softly.

"Remember what I said earlier, do not be a hero, one of us must survive for the sake of Gondor, and of our people!" Boromir insisted, and there were tears in his eyes as he alluded once more to the fact their time together upon Arda was coming to a close; of this the General was certain.

"Gondor cannot always have it her way, brother, if we go, we go together, I shall ensure that you are not taken alive, and I shall follow on in your footsteps!" Faramir vowed.

"Father…!"

"Nothing is certain in war," Faramir said cheekily as he laid his knife close by for the final coup de grace.

"So," Boromir snickered, "you did listen to my lectures after all."

"Only if you began one with those few words, afterwards I likely fell asleep!"

"No, for you are too good a soldier to pass up even second hand advice, take my hand one last time, brother, pledge with me!" Boromir invited.

Faramir removed his glove, and they clasped hands in the way of shield brothers, and both as one uttered the pledge: "For Gondor!"

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**If I Could**

**By Evendim**

_This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based upon the works of J.R.R. Tolkien_

**Chapter Six**

**Masters Caranthir and Calgir**

**ooOoo**

**Minas Tirith**

Master Caranthir, Warden of the Houses of Healing, had bearded the Steward in his den, and was currently reading Denethor the riot act!

"Where is your head, man? Off chasing the clouds? Why, when you have summoned your sons, and they have not appeared, why have you not despatched a troop of Cavalry to search the Pelennor?" Master Caranthir demanded.

This fiery, stately, gentleman was the Warden of the Houses of Healing, and the secret half-brother of Denethor. If one knew what to seek for in family resemblance, it was quite possible to see Ecthelion couched in the wise eyes, and the chiselled jaw, even under the silvered, neatly-trimmed, goatee beard. Caranthir was one year Denethor's senior, and this gave him the edge when dealing with his little brother, for there but for the grace of a wedding ceremony, and so on! Denethor was ever mindful of this, and he respected his brother all the more for never having made an issue of the fact, for in such difficult times, any number of splinter groups could conceivably attempt to overthrow Denethor, and set Caranthir upon the Steward's Chair.

"_I_ summoned my sons?" Denethor said in evident confusion. "Why ever would I do such a foolish thing? Why, they could barely reach the city 'ere night fell, especially with young Master Faramir required to walk from Henneth Annun to Osgiliath to take horse!"

"There can be no question that the despatch was signed by you, Thor. You issued the summons!" Caranthir insisted.

"I am losing my reason!" Denethor said as he huddled closer to the fire in the hearth and shivered.

The statesman gave way to the healer, who gave way in turn to the brother, and Caranthir now lifted a sable throw and wrapped it about his brother's shoulders. Taking Denethor's wrist he counted the thready pulse. A frown creased the healer's distinguished features, he knew better than any the level of stress his brother laboured under, and it was beginning to tell on his health.

"You need to be abed, and do not argue with me, I am retained to ensure the health of all within the city, and so clearly the Steward falls within my remit, and besides, you are my brother, and I love you dearly, you old goat!" Caranthir sighed.

"My sons, my boys, where are they, if not here? They would not disobey my summons; they would brave the Pelennor to reach me, and to think I have no recall of this reprehensible order which has caused this dire situation!" Denethor dropped his head into his hands, and the firelight caught the ring of Office upon his finger, glowing like an evil thing, and for an instant Caranthir almost snatched it from his brother's hand and consigned it to the fire!

"Well, the deed is done, and now we must concern ourselves with locating my nephews, give me your ring as a token of your authority, I shall see to it that a troop is despatched at once," said Caranthir, "you may entrust the object to me, at any time over the intervening years I could have laced your wine, and stolen it from your corpse! I am not totally decrepit, damn it, my time serving in the Thangail Dinen has not left me helpless." Denethor had nothing to say as he handed over the ring, he was still befuddled, and his eyes were unfocused, Caranthir made a mental note to give him a thorough examination when this crisis was resolved.

ooOoo

Faramir shook his head to remove sweat from his eyes, the orcs were more nimble than he had given them credit for, and each time he repulsed a few, a new group would throw itself into the fray. Boromir was credibly despatching the ones who fell close by and which were not already dead, but this action was doomed to failure, for the stock of arrows was dwindling, and Boromir was visibly weakening. Faramir picked out the overseer orc for special treatment. When the thing fell, shrieking like a soul in torment, an arrow protruding from its eye-socket, the others fell back and hung there on the margins, unsure of how to proceed, but there was no doubt in the brothers' minds that they would not abandon the attack!

"I had hoped it would not come down to this, brother," Faramir said with a watery smile as he took up the hunting knife and knelt by Boromir's side. The General was breathing harshly, the recent action had de-stabilized his broken leg, and he was crazed with pain, and haunted by grief. Gazing into his brother's eyes in the little moonlight being afforded by a break in the clouds, Boromir nodded his consent.

"Oh, Boromir, I never thought it would end like this, I do not want to do this, but I shall! I shall!" Faramir was determined not to fail the brother he loved, for those vile objects yonder would not have him for sport! "Wait for me, beyond the veil! Forgive my subterfuge, there was no pain relief, I lied, I used dried hibiscus flowers, and mint, to brew the tea, I just thought that knowing how much I love you, that you might believe the brew really could block your pain! I meant well!"

"I never doubted you, and so the brew worked, and who but you would lie from love? I would not resort to a falsehood, and you would never have believed me were the roles reversed! Do the deed cleanly, Faramine, when they see what is in your mind, they will rush you, and overpower you! Do not tarry when I am gone, follow me straight way to our ancestors!" Boromir demanded.

"And to our Sunshine, do not forget, this is not all about loss, it is about gaining, being with mother once more, and, Eru, she has been missed!"

"Fare thee well, until death do us join!" Boromir purposely quoted the motto of the Ithilien Rangers,

"Fare thee well, brother, till death do us join!" Faramir reiterated, and the point of the knife located alongside his brother's jugular vein in readiness.

ooOoo

"Yonder!" Damrod roared, his breathing laboured, for they had galloped flat out since clearing the city, and handling such heavy set animals was demanding work.

Ancir could not see what had so excited Damrod at first, but then his eyes made out the orcs, grouped ready to attack, making hooting and chirping noises, and it was enough to freeze the bravest man's blood!

"Master, sound the charge!" Ancir ordered, and the entire troop went in for the kill!

Damrod was not interested in taking on the filth of Mordor, he was seeking out the Steward's sons, and once he located them, he dropped from the saddle, strung his bow, and stood over the Hurin Brothers, taking down any thing that moved and not in the uniform of Gondor. The rout was not prolonged. The orcs, lacking leadership, and confused, were soon picked off and hacked to pieces. Such savagery served as a warning to others following in their wake, that Gondor did not spare the legions of the Eye.

Damrod ensured that all imminent danger had been removed, and then he went to Faramir, seeking orders from his lord.

"You came," said Faramir, "how did you know we were in danger?"

"I had expected to hear the fanfare when you both arrived, carrying on the wind, which was blowing towards Osgiliath from the city; I heard no trumpets, and I have hearing that would shame a bat!" Damrod explained.

"I have no idea why Boromir chose you as my bodyguard, but Eru be blessed that he did!" Faramir laughed.

"Would you happen to have a kerchief, Damrod? I appear to be…bleeding!" Boromir then passed out, and that was when Faramir recalled having nicked Boromir when he had been startled by Ancir's bugler sounding the charge!

ooOoo

Caranthir stood upon the ramparts, and watched as the massive city gates were swung open, a troop stood ready to ride out, and at their head was Caranthir's deputy, Master Calgir of Dol Amroth, once a Swan Knight, now a skilled healer, and the personal physician of the Captain General. It had been surprisingly easy to convince the Watch Commander to open the gates, having produced the Steward's Ring of Office, it had given Gondor's Principal Healer a _frisson_ of excitement to order the defences if only for a short while, it was a heady position, that of Steward, not that Caranthir envied his brother the worry, the stress and the heartache the White Rod had delivered into his keeping. Yonder the two sons of the Steward were in dire need, and what if this attempt by Caranthir to aid them was already too late? It would finish Denethor to lose his sons, for he loved them, both of them, even the younger firebrand who was so alike to Denethor it was amusing to watch them interact.

"Eru, if you take the sons, the father shall follow, for there is little else to anchor him to this Middle-earth!" Caranthir said as he turned his grey Numenorean eyes skywards, imploring Eru-Iluvatar in person to intercede.

Calgir was arrayed in leathers, his black healer's robes laid aside, the better to ride, and bringing up the rear of the troop an esquire controlled a packhorse on a leading rein, the animal bore medical supplies that could cover almost every eventuality, and a small, lightweight tent, which would offer adequate shelter against the cold if anyone should require to be stabilized until a Wain could be sent out at dawn. There was little else to be done so far into the night, and if anyone could lead this detachment, it would be the resourceful Calgir! Now it was time for Caranthir to sedate the Steward, and send the man off to bed for some much needed sleep. A closer watch would need to be mounted on the movements of the Lord of Gondor, for it had occurred to Caranthir only this night that perhaps he was reaching beyond his limits, employing an object which he was entitled to employ, for he was in all ways the king's lawful regent, but with his health already compromised the strain of this activity might well overwhelm Denethor completely. Caranthir turned to go back into the Citadel, his heart was heavy, his mind reeling under this latest possible reason for his brother's decline.

"The Palantir," Caranthir sighed, "was never crafted for to be used by mortals as weak as we, brother, for the days of the Sea Kings are gone, and we must find a new means to beat the lidless eye. Turn not to the dark crystal of lore, turn to Theoden of Rohan, let us put our faith not in magic, but in men!"

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**If I Could**

**By Evendim**

_This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based upon the works of Professor J.J.R. Tolkien_

**Chapter Seven**

**Repatriation**

**ooOoo**

Ancir had the presence of mind to send a galloper, under escort, to the city, to put the Steward's mind at ease as to the safety of his sons. Damrod had, as Boromir succinctly put it, 'a face like a slapped backside', because he had tried to _nix_ this foolhardy enterprise from the moment news had come from the Citadel, for normally it would have been re-directed from Cair Andros, a notation on the outside of the sealed orders would have advised the Garrison commander of the need for Lord Faramir, and escort, to ride to Minas Tirith, and the messenger, with escort, would have fetched their mounts. Had they ridden to Osgiliath to rendezvous with Boromir, the journey would have been completed to the city within the hours of daylight. This had been a well laid trap, and Damrod was extremely unhappy.

"Worse things happen at sea," Boromir snickered.

"What have you dosed him with?" Damrod asked of Calgir.

"Something to make the whole of Arda rose tinted," the Healer chuckled.

"Got any spare?" Damrod asked sincerely.

"Try not to fret, the General has a bad break, but we have the expertise to mend it, and Lord Faramir is unhurt. Your diligence likely saved their lives, be at peace, man!" Calgir said gently.

Ancir had organised the tent's preparation, and now Boromir was out of the chill night air, and floating from a surfeit of opiates. He could not feel pain even if he wished to! Faramir was worn to a frazzle, and Damrod forced him to lie down upon a blanket and covered him with a second. Knowing the danger had subsided, Faramir allowed himself to drop into a deep sleep. Calgir noted the fact that Boromir's principal guard dog was now asleep, and so he began to re-set the broken bone, thankfully it was a clean break. This was a two man job, and so he drafted Ancir into the post of assistant.

"When I have him stabilized, we shall repatriate him and Lord Faramir to the Houses of Healing. All this day Master Caranthir has been pacing and fretting, he knew there was something amiss with the Steward, and when he discovered the Lord of Gondor's folly, he set wheels in motion first to search for the poor lord's absent sons, and then to care for Lord Denethor himself. It is feared, nay, likely, the poor lord has suffered an apoplexy. He has no memory of having sent out the order for his sons to attend him, yet he did sign the order; even went to the trouble of setting his seal upon the missive that went to Cair Andros for onward transmission to the Refuge! It bodes ill, Ancir!"

Ancir dropped his head and sighed. All they needed, really, a man with dubious sanity in charge of Gondor.

ooOoo

Caranthir and his Apprentice Master had passed the better part of two hours settling Denethor in his huge bed, bathed, medicated, and warmly wrapped against the chill, he settled into an uneasy sleep, muttering incoherently about his sons. Caranthir then dismissed his assistant, and took it upon himself to sit vigil over his brother.

"Be hush, silly old gander, your goslings are safe," soothed Caranthir, "the fox went home empty handed, and with luck, he never shall feed his ego with Hurin bones. I am going to be as a second skin to you from now on. If I even scent you are trying to access the Anor Stone, I shall put you under an opiate cosh! You risk not only your life, but the lives of us all by laying yourself open to manipulation. You do not understand a single word, but then, you have no need to, it is enough that _one_ of us is minding the shop!"

"Fin…!" Denethor mumbled, seeking with one cold hand for his long dead wife.

"A hand is but a hand," Caranthir said with a catch in his voice, as he took the searching hand in his own warm hand, and saw a smile form upon his brother's weary face.

There they sat, one remembering his lost love, the other mourning that he never had known the true love of a woman, his calling had devoured his passions entirely. There were times when he looked at his handsome nephews and actively regretted never having made time for himself. At others, such as now, he was only too aware that his life had not been misspent. His diligence had pushed the boundaries of medicine. Twenty years ago this man would not have survived such a major trauma to his brain. Tonight, having been sedated, and treated with the appropriate extracts to aid his recovery, his brother had been given a second chance. That could not be the outcome of a wasted life. Calgir had become a surrogate son. One day he would succeed Caranthir as Warden of the Houses of Healing. One day.

ooOoo

Boromir was not asleep, despite the high dosage of opiates in his bloodstream he was still fighting off the urge to succumb. Faramir was once more by his brother's side, tired beyond bearing himself, but unable to rest while Boromir was still awake. It was no major issue, if the roles were reversed Boromir would sit here even if he had to have his esquire prop him in place.

"One man went to mow…went to mow a meadow…!"

"Brother…"

"One man and his dog…went to mow a meadow…!"

"That is very nice, and now you need to saw wood…z…z…z! Sleep, you big lummox, while the drug is holding the pain at bay!"

"S'not you know…leg hurts abon…abom…a lot!" Boromir sighed.

Faramir glanced away, for he could not bear to hear this. He had believed that the drugs were controlling the agony from earlier, but it was typical of Boromir to ride out the substance in his bloodstream, for he did much the same with ale when he would celebrate minor victories with his men. He was simply too tough for his own good, it would be better for all involved if he just keeled over and let go of consciousness.

"Shall I brew you some tea?" Faramir offered.

"Tea…! S'what I need! Your…special…tea!" Boromir begged, and his hand groped in the semi-darkness for his brother's hand.

"How may I make tea while you hold me captive?" Faramir tried for humour and missed.

"Good question. Light a fire here. Boil the water in no time!" Boromir giggled.

"And set fire to the tent, not one of your best suggestions, brother," said Faramir.

"There are many tents, daddy will never miss this one," said Boromir.

"I will ask Damrod to brew your tea outside," Faramir soothed.

"No, for he shall not have the missing ingredient," said Boromir.

"Which is…?" Faramir asked.

"The love of a brother, which sustained me through this whole dread episode, and which has kept me going through so many dread days in the past," said Boromir.

"I shall brew your tea!" Faramir said, in need of a moment alone to weep.

ooOoo

Damrod used a kerchief to lift the can of boiling water and pour some over the leaves in a mug, grimacing at the heat percolating through the too thin linen he hurriedly set the can to one side.

"Ah…I hope this works!" Damrod hissed.

"Well, the warmth is comforting, I make no more claim than that, you packed the herbs and mint, after all!" Faramir laughed.

"Mere mint and hibiscus, Faramir…!"

"No," said Faramir, holding up one palm in a 'stop' signal. "I have berated myself enough; there is no need for you to add to my chagrin. It was a foolhardy undertaking to try to reach the city at so late an hour. In future I shall simply disregard such an order."

"No, you will, but your brother will not, and you shall go along with him as you always do," said Faramir.

"He is sworn to service, as am I, Dee!" Faramir retorted.

"As I am, also, but still I would not place you at risk over an order I knew to be suspect in its origins!"

"What do you mean?" Faramir asked.

"Nothing, I may speculate, I cannot prove, and so…nothing!" Damrod said tersely.

"Do you suspect the order did not come from our father? Impossible! I broke the seal of the Steward myself!" Faramir said gently.

"The written word was his, I have no doubt, but…he loves you, and Boromir, and so why would he do such a thing?" Damrod replied.

"Stop, my brain is afire, I have no more energy to expend on this, when we are within the Citadel, then I shall ask Lord Denethor what his motives were for his summons. I must take this tea to Boromir."

ooOoo

Boromir sipped the tea gratefully, his befuddled brain still believed this herbal brew would ease his pain, and so he drained the mug, and settled to sleep. Faramir smiled and smoothed the damp blond hair back from his brother's brow. The dried blood upon his brother's neck was a stark reminder how close he had come to killing this precious being.

"Would you really have done it?" Calgir asked, reading Faramir's thoughts.

"Have you ever seen a prisoner of the orcs? I would not soil your mind with their deeds. I would have killed my brother, and followed him through the circles of the earth. Dead is dead. Whether we go swiftly, or slowly, would have no bearing on how Gondor would fare after our passing. He has given enough, Master Calgir, more than enough, and he has not finished yet," said Faramir.

"Drink this, it will soothe you into sleep, do not fight it, for that is why your brother failed to find release from his pain," said Calgir.

"I cannot wait to be home, for I need to ask our sire why he placed us in such danger!" Faramir said.

"Ask, by all means, but do not expect him to be able to give you an answer. He has suffered an apoplexy. He has no memory of having sent you the summons. His ability to rule is under question!" Calgir said gently.

"I am now going to the city. Take care of my brother, tell him I went ahead to see our father!" said Faramir, and he poured the opiate onto the ground, watching it seep through the uncovered floor of the tent.

"Aye, I shall my lord, and Faramir?"

"Calgir…?"

"Take an escort?"

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**If I Could**

**By Evendim**

_This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based upon the works of Professor J.R.R. Tolkien_

**Chapter Eight**

**Circling the Wagons**

**ooOoo**

**Happy birthday, Ithil-Valon!**

_Minas Tirith_

Hooves, clattering on the cobbled setts of the streets, woke the Rat Catcher from his huddled sleep. He hissed at his terrier to silence it, the rats were coming in slowly but surely, towards the baited traps, and Mossop swore under his breath when the riders thundered by and his night's work was in ruins! He left his traps, it was pointless to press this any longer, the sun was beginning to peep over the horizon, the rats had fled, scared by the sudden burst of activity.

"Darn it!" Mossop growled.

"Its busy up at the Big House," said the sentry.

"Baldric…? Aye, what's t'do?"

"It's all very hush-hush!" Baldric tapped his nose and winked one eye.

"They needs ter consider the ordinary man, racketin' abaht!" Mossop stated then turned his head, and spat into the drainage channel in disgust.

Baldric waved and moved off to walk his patrol.

That nice Captain Faramir was out and about late. Or was that early? Baldric wondered why that was; there had been all sorts of odd happenings tonight. Main Gates opening and shutting like Old Mother Ioreth's gob! Well, it wasn't for the likes of Baldric to judge his betters. Time to stroll back the way he'd come, and wouldn't you know it, his pet bunion was giving him _gyp_ tonight!

ooOoo

Faramir dropped from the saddle, and strode into the Citadel, right behind him was Damrod, and they had had words over this decision, Faramir wanted his body guard to stay with his brother. Damrod had told him _that_ bird never would fly! Faramir had been too tired, and too worried, to argue. Denethor's sentries stood to attention and fanned the doors to the Steward's apartments open before Gondor's third in command. Faramir saluted with his clasped gloves to his head, and swept on into the Study. Damrod held back at that point, understanding that Faramir needed time alone with his father. Settling by the fire, Damrod grinned, and ruffled the ears of Denethor's wheaten hound bitch, Mira. Beyond the double doors lay the Steward's bedchamber, and Faramir was swallowed up behind them, leaving Damrod stood down from duty, and free to curl up in the armchair and sleep.

"Father, attend, I must…speak with you!"

"Hush!" Caranthir hissed. "Our Lord is unwell, approach quietly, do _not_ distress him."

"What has occurred?" Faramir gasped.

"He has suffered an apoplexy, he cannot recall sending to you and your brother, I have no reason to disbelieve his claim," said Caranthir.

"No, no, this is simply…tragic! He is not in danger of…he _will_ live?" Faramir asked.

"He is not going anywhere tonight," said Caranthir, "today, ought I to say? But if he carries on working at this level, I can not make you guarantees."

"Fah…! Fahr…!" Denethor's fingers twitched upon the coverlet, and Faramir took the Steward's icy hand between his own warm ones, and squeezed it gently to allow his father to know he was holding his hand.

"Hush, papa, do not fret, I am here, Boromir too, we are well, and all is under control!" Faramir said softly.

"Audience…need to be…" Denethor's agitation was painful to watch, "…can not permit…overthrow my rule…!"

"It is to this end that you fathered your sons, sire," Faramir soothed, "be at peace, father of Gondor, the Audience shall go ahead as scheduled, have no fear!"

"Yes…yes…as it should…be!" Denethor mumbled and then his eyes closed, and he drifted off into a deep, healing, sleep.

"Boromir is incapacitated, he has a broken leg, and Calgir is stabilizing him prior to repatriating him to the Houses of Healing. Eru, if father _were_ in his right mind, he would be become a stranger to reason anew over what I am about to do!" Faramir said with certainty.

"What, precisely, _do_ you intend to do?" Caranthir enquired.

"Why, take the Audience, naturally," Faramir grinned.

"Then, in that case," said Caranthir, "You shall have need of this!" As he spoke, Caranthir removed the ring of Office from Denethor's hand, and threw it in a neat arc to his nephew. "Do not lose it, for he will have my guts for garters if you do!"

"Your guts, my head," Faramir muttered as he hurried from the chamber, "Tallis! Attend, and fetch the list of petitioners, Eru, that bath tub had better be warm this day, my bones are seizing I am so cold!"

ooOoo

The Wain had arrived at dawn, and loading Boromir had been a slow process, his leg needed to be protected at each stage, and Calgir was fairly itching to get him into the aseptic environment of the Houses of Healing. Infection was a real risk out here on the open ground, and this injury had been sustained too many hours ago for Calgir's peace of mind. As soon as the General was aboard the Wain they progressed slowly, under guard, across the intervening distance to the city.

"Why is my bed rocking?" Boromir giggled.

"_It_ is not, _you_ are, you are in a Wain headed for the Citadel, and the Houses of Healing," said Calgir.

"Bollocks," was Boromir's solitary comment. He did so hate to be imprisoned in the Houses of Healing. Nothing to do, bland invalid food, crow-black healers mooching about with their hands stuffed up inside the sleeves of their robes. Boromir had once asked did they peel oranges up there with a view to not having to share.

"Did someone remember to load Faramir?" Boromir asked through the haze of sedation.

"Naturally," said Calgir, and Eru, lying was become almost second nature of a sudden.

"Good…good…can't forget the Commander of the Ithilien Strangers!" Boromir giggled.

"Might I suggest some rest, my lord?" Calgir said with a smile.

"Oh, I am quite comfortable, thank you, for I have not had this much rest in the entire year!"

"What a pity, we should all benefit from your lordship taking some sleep!" Calgir said with chagrin as Boromir broke into song.

"Gather round my noble lads, and raise a tankard here, for we have fought, and we have won, and we have earned this beer!"

"Only another hour to go before we reach the Houses of Healing," Calgir said aloud, "so, time aplenty to commit to memory every barracks song ever written!"

ooOoo

_The Hall of Kings, Minas Tirith_

Bathed, robed, and with his father's ring displayed before him upon a table, Faramir was taking the weekly Audience, hearing petitions from the citizens, dispensing justice, under the authority invested in him through possession of the Steward's ring of Office, a little known by-law, but one still on the statutes none the less. Above all, it was imperative to conceal Denethor's recent serious loss of lucidity, and even more imperative to broadcast that, although their General was also out of commission for the foreseeable future, he was not in danger of losing his life. Not an ideal situation, but Faramir, along with Boromir, had learned how to speak employing the elaborate language of the court. Almost at the end of the lists, Faramir shifted in the solid, uncomfortable chair of the Steward. Eru's teeth, how did his father tolerate this day in and day out? Not so much as a cushion to dull the solid object pressing back against one.

"Petition denied, no; do not reiterate your argument! You sold a horse that was several years older than you claimed, and so compensation must be paid, or the animal taken back, and the entire payment refunded. We are astounded that you dare to defend your actions! Next!"

Paying enough heed to discharge this duty, yet with one ear trained to catch the recognition call that would announce his brother was safe within the city walls, Faramir plodded on through two more small claims disputes. Fortunately there had been nothing too demanding on the schedule for this week. Perhaps by the time the next Audience rolled around Denethor would be able to oversee it in person. Tallis was rounding off the day's business when Chancellor Halbeer demanded to be heard.

Faramir's instinct was to tell him he was required elsewhere and could not afford the time, but good sense over rode him, or Denethor's spirit was by his side, guiding him. In either event, Faramir held his composure, reaching back through the mists of time to countless numbers of his kin for inspiration.

"Chancellor, approach the Chair of the Steward, and state your business," Faramir invited.

"Where is the Lord of Gondor?"

"You must address the occupant of the Steward's Chair, as you would address Lord Denethor, my lord Chancellor, it is a matter of protocol," said Tallis.

Faramir kept his composure, even although a little bubble of laughter seemed to be trapped in his throat.

"My Lord, I should like to enquire as to Lord Denethor's health, in view of his absence," said Halbeer.

"My father is indisposed, an oyster, ill-preserved and tainted, his physician suspects," said Faramir. He would burn in the pits reserved for liars, thieves, and traitors for this surfeit of falsehood, he was certain.

"And Lord Boromir ate this _same_ oyster?" Halbeer was enjoying this too much, the snake knew something!

"There is every possibility he ate an oyster from the same batch, for we are a caring, a sharing, family, and some doubtless went to Osgiliath. My own command being at such a remove from the city no doubt saved me from suffering the same fate!" Faramir said with complete composure.

"May one break one's leg from eating oysters?" Oh, but this smug little runt was going to pay for this, if Faramir had to have Caranthir doctor an oyster or two to see the deed done!

"Certainly," said Faramir, "if one is a serving officer, and far from civilised plumbing, it is my understanding that my lord brother slipped whilst visiting the latrines!"

A sharp bark sounded, and Faramir did not dare meet Damrod's dancing eyes, for it would have been the undoing of the entire oyster saga.

Murmured sympathy echoed around the vaulted chamber, such a tragedy to befall their General. It all pointed to the lax attitude of the City Fathers, and their failure to regulate the city wells, and the middens were in need of raking and burning also. Halbeer now found himself the focus of many of the merchants present. What were they paying taxes for? Had the shell fish been on sale in the market? What if tainted oysters should reach the population at large through the tavern kitchens?

Much more of this and Faramir would break his own leg racing to the latrines! So much fuss over a non-existent haul of tainted oysters. Tallis, himself in need of a comfort break, declared the Audience to be at an end, and called upon all present to acknowledge the departure of the representative of the Steward.

Once safely behind the velvet privacy curtain, closing off the robing chamber from the public gaze, Faramir collapsed against Damrod and laughed himself hoarse!

"Oh, how does father maintain his composure, Dee?"

"He does not invent rogue oysters, for one thing, nor does he spread rumours that his heir cannot safely navigate a field latrine. Your brother shall never live that down, you do realize this?" Damrod chuckled.

"I can handle Boromir, the big ox shall see the lie for what it was, a face saving invention, it is father whom I must placate, for being so bold as to invade his chair! Eru, my sit upon is insensible! Come you, it is time for to circle the wagons!"

"One hears it even now," said Damrod, "_Boromire_ of Gondor!"

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

**If I Could**

**By Evendim**

_This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based upon the works of J.R.R. Tolkien_

**Chapter Nine**

**Damage Limitation**

**ooOoo**

Faramir shed his official robes, post Audience, and headed to enquire after his father. Caranthir re-took the ring of Office from his nephew, and restored it to Lord Denethor's finger.

"How is he?" asked Faramir, as he ran one hand tenderly over Denethor's hair, now spread upon the snow-white linen pillow.

"As you see, he is asleep, quite naturally, and without the aid of opiates, and that is a good outcome. The more he rests at this stage the better. So, have you succeeded with your damage limitation?" Caranthir enquired with a twinkle in his eyes.

"I _might_ have committed one tiny fox's paw," Faramir admitted.

"You, commit a faux-pas? How is it even possible?" Asked the senior healer as he crossed to the table by the window and poured them both some wine. "Do tell."

"Halbeer knows about Boromir, I had to cover the folly of our sire in having us attend in such a foolhardy fashion, and so I said there had been an outbreak of food poisoning amongst the Hurins, due to bad oysters? Father is 'indisposed'; Boromir fell over in the latrine!" Hearing himself repeat this lie, Faramir gave a tiny squeak of discomfiture, and shook his head.

"Actually," said Caranthir, "that was not too shabby a save. One imagines the _bugger_ blindsided you; he is a slithering reptile, from the pits of Doom!"

"He did rather sneak it into the conversation, yes," said Faramir.

"No matter," said Caranthir with a toothy grin, "one can quite successfully replicate the expected symptoms, and a dose of the _trots_ ought to underpin this food poisoning theory. It is entirely likely the _glutton_ has been about the 'pearly-providers' himself."

"You wouldn't…! You would…! Aren't you the horrid old healer?" Faramir chuckled.

"I am doing him a favour, for he ought to shed some of that bulk, and less of the 'old'," said Caranthir, and now he drained his wine, smacked his lips, and said: "Thor always did have a superb palate! He is possessed of excellent taste in wine, in women, and in the begetting of his offspring."

"Uncle…? Thank you for that!" Faramir said sincerely.

"You know me, child, outspoken to a fault, I never flatter, nor practice to deceive!" The Healer now bowed graciously towards his recumbent brother, and exited the bedchamber, calling to the sentries to see to it that no one, save the healers, or immediate family, were to be permitted to cross the threshold.

"How he adores you, papa, in that one sibling, at least, you are blessed!" Faramir stated as he smoothed the sable throw over his father, and turned to leave. He really had to speak with Boromir, had to set him straight on the tale he must uphold if questioned. "Dee, sit with father, would you? I need to speak to my brother, 'ere he wrecks my carefully laid plan!"

"Oh, you have one, then?" Damrod asked with a grin.

"Cheeky sod," Faramir snorted. "Mind the shop, and refuse to eat any oysters!"

ooOoo

_The Houses of Healing_

Faramir had expected Boromir to be in much better shape by the time he was free to visit him. He was taken aback to find his brother moaning in pain, and sweating, and shaking freely from a fever. Calgir was his usual inscrutable self, but it was still evident to Faramir that he was concerned about his patient's condition. Wringing out a cloth steeped in ice water, Calgir bathed Boromir's face and then held his wrist to count his pulse. Understanding the process, Faramir remained silent until the Healer relinquished his hold on Boromir and shook his head.

"He is having some reaction to the opiates. I did have to give him quite substantial doses to quieten him for transfer; even so, it took most of the journey here before he finally quietened."

"Where, exactly…?" Faramir asked as much for something to say, as an actual need to know where Boromir had been when he fell silent.

"Mid-way through: 'She was only the landlord's daughter, but she knew more than she surely ought-er!'. The One be thanked, it was growing more risqué by the verse!" Calgir muttered.

"It is his common touch that makes him such a wonderful commander. He may sup with a soldier of a morning, and sit to dinner with the Lord of us all by even, and never miss a heartbeat. I never shall be so attuned to the discipline of soldiering as he is. What of his leg? Shall it mend?" Faramir enquired, now holding his breath as he awaited Calgir's opinion.

"It is hoped so. But the delay in getting him here was prolonged, as you know, and every hour takes its toll. This fever is disquieting. I might seek the opinion of Master Caranthir, to err on the safe side," said Calgir.

"You must pull him through this, I had my first taste of father's duties today, and I want no second helpings, I swear!" Faramir said honestly.

"If I did not know you better, I would wonder that you are less concerned with your brother's health, than your own work load. But that is not the case, and you are merely trying not to absorb the seriousness of the situation. I do not blame you. For what would your father do without him, for if you could not order Ithilien, in order to become Captain General, how would Gondor hold the line?" Calgir knew full well how these brothers felt about one another. They had supported one another for their entire lives. They would only ever stop supporting one another when one of them no longer drew breath, and that was what had Faramir so afraid at this moment in time.

"He is strong," said Calgir, "and he will fight for the right to roast the lives out of both Master Caranthir and I, have no fear!"

"Oh, he is strong, as strong as an ox, but still he is only human, with a mortal's frailties, and though I am suited to Ithilien, and the type of soldiering there, I am no cavalry man!" Faramir stated as he sat beside his brother, and took over mopping his brow.

"No, one supposes not, and there is a difference. I once rode with Imrahil, in the Swan Knights, and the cavalry road is hard, and long," said Calgir.

"I should miss my own command, Damrod, Mablung, Anborn, I am a Ranger by choice as much as by necessity," said Faramir. "So get well, you great lummox, do you hear?"

If Boromir had heard, then he showed no sign of it, merely murmured in his sleep as he moved restlessly upon the bed, his hair darkened with sweat, his hand balled into a fist about the now crumpled bed sheet.

"Hush, I am here, all shall be well," said Faramir, praying this was not a lie, unlike the 'bad oyster'!

ooOoo

In the early hours following on from Boromir's repatriation, Ancir came to take Faramir's place, and Damrod came to drag Faramir away by force, if necessary, to take some rest. Ancir settled with his reports, determined to get ahead with the paperwork so that he could free up Faramir to cover for Denethor later in the day if need be. Boromir was still dangerously ill, but according to the healers he was beginning to hold his own. Ancir was deep in thought, deciding how many sacks of potatoes were needed at Osgiliath, and how many they could deliver to Henneth Annun without breaking the logistics corps, when a kiss was dropped atop his copper hair, and there stood his sister.

"Gilly, go to bed, it is…it never is that time, surely?" Ancir groaned.

"You are the one who must go to bed, for you shall have to take the Barracks inspection in the wake of dawn!" Said Gilmith of Lossarnach; the daughter of Forlong.

"You have forgotten more about soldiering than I suspect I shall ever learn, sister!"

"There you are then, you sit there with your books and quill, and I will take the inspection!" she said with a smile behind her eyes.

"With all those naked troops to-ing and fro-ing the ablutions? I think not, madam!" Ancir blushed at the thought.

"I promise not to touch, I shall confine myself to merely looking!" she teased.

"Eru, the woman is shameless! Alright, I shall snatch a couple of hours sleep, and you will call me if he needs me, yes?" Ancir insisted.

"What may you do for him that I may not, brother?" Gilmith asked mischievously.

"He is much shyer than you would imagine," said Ancir.

"Get away with you, we grew up together, him, you, me, Faramir, Edwen, Edgar…!" she was ticking the names off on her fingers, "Gareth, even Cerris for a time, but he was older of course and so…what?"

"It was a pity the stork that dropped you down father's chimney was colour-blind. He should have brought one in a pink blanket, not yet another blue one! Ow! Oh, you still can land a slap, sister, whoever turned you down for active service miss judged the decision!" Ancir groaned.

"Men, it is not so much a gender, as an exclusive club!" Gilmith pouted as Ancir left to take some rest, she then turned her attention to Boromir. "Sleep, lovely one, sleep, for it is nature's healer, and does not steal about wrapped in crow black!"

As she sat there watching over Boromir, the raven-haired, grey-eyed beauty, dressed shockingly in riding leathers, her waist-long hair braided into a thick plait, used a whet stone to sharpen her sword. Ever the tom-boy of their group, Gilmith, _Gilly_, stood guard over the one man with whom she believed she could make a life. The one who accepted that she, too, loved their land, and believed she could make a difference with a sword clasped in her hands, as opposed to knitting socks for the Garrison!

Why did he have to attach himself to Amaryllis Morthond? The woman was not even free to wed, even if she was not so much older than Ori to begin with. He needed an heir, and Amy was pushing her luck in that department. Then again, he was a serving soldier, perhaps he did not wish to leave a widow behind him, but for Gilly, even to have loved and lost, if the man was Boromir, was something she could bear to live with. If only he saw _her_, and not Ancir's big sister!

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

**If I Could**

**By Evendim**

_This is a not for profit work of Fan fiction based upon the works of J.R.R. Tolkien_

**Chapter 10**

**Oyster's revenge!**

**ooOoo**

Faramir found himself once again deputizing for his father, and his brother, when the Court of the White Tree gathered to eat in the Merethrond the following evening. Boromir's fever had subsided, but still the Healers had him sedated, anticipating a restless patient who would undo the little good they had set in place. Denethor was spending much of his day asleep, a natural healing sleep, as opposed to an herbal cosh concocted by the Apothecary. With so few Hurins available with whom to dress the table, Faramir drafted his uncle into sitting by his right hand side, at his left, putting protocol ahead of prejudice, Faramir suffered the insufferable Halbeer. Faramir was given the signal from the Major-domo that the food was about to be served, and so Faramir now stood.

"My lords, and ladies, please to be upstanding for to observe the 'Standing Grace'," said Faramir, and as one the Court now rose to its feet. Faramir had to show impeccable respect at this moment, or be utterly disgraced, and so when Dee, standing behind his chair on duty as 'guard dog' began to purr in low ranger tones so faint only Faramir could hear him "One oliphant, two oliphants, three oliphants, until the required amount of time had been reached, around thirty-three oliphants, which equated to approximately one minute, Faramir was about to kill his ranger by clasping his windpipe, and counting how many Oliphants it took to throttle him!

"How _is_ our lord?" Halbeer enquired of Faramir after they all re-took their seats.

Before Faramir could formulate a reply, Caranthir laconically leaned over and enquired: "Which one?"

"Why, Lord Denethor, naturally," retorted Halbeer.

"Ah," Caranthir said, "…_the_ Lord, then. We have more than one lord indisposed, but still we have one who is fully functioning, eh, Faramir? Not quite so put out, that Henneth Annun is too far removed from the city to share in the annual tribute of oysters now, eh?"

"As you say, Master Caranthir," said Faramir, and why not, for Faramir had no notion where this annual tribute had sprung from! Well, he suspected from Caranthir's too-fertile mind, if he were being honest. The Healer had a way of inventing festivals, rituals, folk lore, whatever happened to fit the bill at the time.

"Beware the _tides_ of March," Caranthir dead-panned.

"No oysters on the serving lists tonight, one assumes?" Halbeer asked, squinting with his _porcine_ blue eyes as the salvers began to be fetched around.

"Master…?" Faramir might as well address the fount of all knowledge directly.

"Condemned by mine own fair hand," said Caranthir. "Ne'er a one survived!"

Much more of this and Faramir's composure would shatter. Denethor could sit and swap 'tall ones' with Caranthir hour upon hour, but for Faramir, the need to giggle always won out!

"Steak, slow-braised in ale gravy, with puffed pastry," Caranthir said with relish. "Do feel free to indulge, Lord Chamberlain!"

As Halbeer reached for the salt cellar, Caranthir's right hand passed over his platter, and a ring sprang open, and a thin veil of powder fell into the thick gravy. By the time Halbeer had added the salt, the powder had sank into the gravy, and the hand which so often defeated the eye had been snatched back, and was reaching for the pepper grinder.

Faramir froze. This benign healer, one must remember, was the agent of the Thangail Dinen alleged to be code-named: 'The Sandman' because of his skill at putting foes to 'sleep'. Alleged, for no agent, save Boromir, their _Ostohir_, 'Fortress Master', knew the identity of others within the order, but Boromir had never had a problem over trust with Faramir, and he had dropped a heavy hint or two, one night at Henneth Annun.

Had Caranthir finally had enough of Halbeer's dirty tricks, or was he simply reinforcing the 'bad oyster' rumour going about the Citadel? Faramir had no love for Halbeer, but Faramir was, for the moment, ruler of this land, and though justice was said to be blind, she would have to be deaf, and dumb also, to ignore the action Faramir had just witnessed! A tiny 'snick' and the recess in the elaborate insignia ring, with the pole and serpent emblem of the healers, snapped closed, reinforcing the fact that Faramir had not simply imagined the deed. Damrod, knowing from Faramir's flustered actions that his lord was in two minds as to whether to intervene or no, muttered a bored: "Meh…!"

"Argh…!" Halbeer gasped, and clasped his throat, and Faramir actually spilled wine upon the table linen, fearing the Chamberlain was about to expire at the Steward's own table!

"Drink some wine, man," said Caranthir, "And _do_ allow the steam to escape, 'ere you scald your mouth. Severe burns over nine-tenths of the body mass can prove fatal!"

"Nine…Eru…!" Faramir gasped as his laughter built, forming up like a volcano under his ribs! Halbeer had a big mouth, but not quite nine-tenths of his body mass!

"One has to be excused, this pie is delicious!" Halbeer mumbled through a mouthful of half chewed food.

"Gluttony ought never to be excused," Caranthir opined.

Each tiny burp, every unscheduled shift in his chair, brought Faramir's head about to check the man beside him had not keeled over onto the floor. His entire night was reduced to a refined form of mental torture, and all the while Caranthir daintily passed the frothy lemon syllabub beyond his lips, without once anointing that neatly manicured goatee beard.

An explosive _belch_ ripped from Halbeer, and Caranthir, supposedly making light of this breach of protocol, begged pardon for the mortified man hiding behind a kerchief.

"Pardon one for being so rude; it was not one, it was one's food!" Caranthir stated.

"I…one _does_ beg your pardon, Lord Faramir, one has no…!" Halbeer was sensing the belch had a neighbour, and so he pressed the kerchief to his closed mouth!

"Pardon the pig with the sore twig!" Caranthir mused.

Sweat was now running freely down Faramir's spine. The heat in the Huge Chamber, the need to suppress his laughter, the actual terror of the man beside him going face down in the gravy boat, all had ruined his appetite, which had been considerable at the outset, and so he now decided to bring the entire ordeal to a close. If standing in for Denethor only bought him one privilege, then this was to be the one!

The Usher of the Court had noted Faramir rising from his chair, and he now called for all to rise for the Lord's departure.

Caranthir now fell in behind his nephew, and his nephew's body guard, and they swept from the Merethrond as all present dipped their heads or curtsied.

Beyond closed doors, Faramir came to a halt, folded over, and laughed until he wept!

"Never, ever, sit by me at dinner again, sir! I have ruptured some internal…innards…!" Faramir gasped.

"He shall not expire," said Caranthir, "Unless, of course, my chastisement coincides with the will of Eru Iluvatar!"

"What was that you shook into his pie?" Faramir demanded.

"If I told you, would it even mean anything to you? Suffice it to say that it shifts colic in a strangulated horse!" Caranthir said, and then he used a manicured little finger to winkle a stray piece of beef from his front teeth. "I think perhaps I shall visit with your papa for a while. One rarely gets to discourse uninterrupted with Thor. Good night, my lord, Damrod, sleep soundly!"

"So says the Sand Man!" Faramir said uneasily.

"Halbeer had an oyster in his pie. The kitchens were instructed to use them to pad out the meat; in ale gravy they taste not unlike a meaty bite of steak," Damrod said innocently.

"Where did they source _oy_…smell a rat; a tall, raven-haired, blue-eyed…_rat_!" Faramir giggled.

"Where is there a rat…?" Mossop demanded of a sentry, as the Civic Rat Catcher and his pied-terrier 'Piper' went by.

TBC

How many 'oliphants' are there to a minute, then?

Evendim


	11. Chapter 11

**If I Could**

**By Evendim**

_This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based upon the works of J.R.R. Tolkien _

**Chapter Eleven**

**The Cat is out of the Bag**

ooOoo

_Denethor's Bedchamber_

Caranthir laid the tip of one bony forefinger atop an ivory token and enquired of his brother: "Ought I to take the castle?"

Denethor nodded, raising one hand to indicate how this manoeuvre ought to be accomplished. Caranthir's lower lip slid forward in a pout. Wily fox that he was Denethor had spotted a more advantageous move, and so now a castle, and a Herald, had been simultaneously taken. Sighing to express his disgust, Caranthir removed both tokens and set them on the small gaming table.

"A good thing we play for points. If this were a risqué disrobing game, I should be down to my drawers and a sock!"

"Heh…s…so…sock?" Denethor's interest was piqued.

"Those damned mousers; I found a trail of un-ravelled yarn all about the furniture legs. One's spare pair was drying above the mantle. So _generously_ I am paid for my care of you, brother!" Caranthir grumbled.

"Anything…only…ask!" Denethor said anxiously.

"It was a jest, have no fear, besides, I may always steal Calgir's paw covers at need. He moans, of course, but I blame the cats!" Caranthir chuckled.

"Thank…y…you…good…game!" Denethor said haltingly, but Caranthir knew the depth of gratitude behind so simple a declaration.

"One never learns, for you somehow always outwit me, brother!" Caranthir now fussed over the sable coverlet, wishing to bestow a loving touch without engaging in sentiment. Their relationship to one another was not an open secret, they had managed to avoid dragging Ecthelion's good name through the rumour mills all these years, and so why not maintain their silence for however many years they had left together. Tonight they were simply relieved to have continued at being brethren.

"Rest," Denethor whispered, "all…is…well!"

"Not content with being Steward, he now wishes to be Warden of the Houses of Healing!" Caranthir called over his shoulder, as he turned away and crossed the spacious chamber, pausing before the double doors; Caranthir faced his bedridden brother, and dipped to one knee in a display of respect. Before Denethor could call him on this act of devotion, he slipped between the part-opened doors, and made his way through the Study, and out into the corridor. Passing the sentries he announced: "Fasten that top frog-ing, man, you guard the Lord of Gondor, not Paddy the Tinker's goat!"

ooOoo

_Houses of Healing_

"Where is my knitting needle?" Boromir asked in a demented tone, twisting and turning in the bed, frantically seeking the missing object.

"Why? Have you some raging desire to throw off a scarf?" Faramir asked. He now dangled the missing bone knitting needle in the air, just beyond Boromir's reach, causing the soldier to swear like a…well…trooper!

"Ooh! Some seriously bad words escaped there, brother. Be at peace! Here, have your needle," said Faramir with a grin as he sat upon the bed.

"Gnarf…! Arf…! Ooh…!" The frenzy abated as the General slid the slender needle inside the plaster cast and attacked a vicious itch.

"He faces legions of _yrc_ without breaking sweat, but introduce an itch and he is reduced to a babbling wreck!" Faramir laughed.

"Choose a limb, any limb, bring it here, and I will break it, then we shall see how you hold up under the worst torture known to man, an itch one may not reach, last night I would have given my left test…my…my…"

"You would have traded your left testicle, eh, and all for a knitting needle? I am not sure father would have approved, not yet, not before you father an heir!" Faramir opined.

"My, my, isn't he the difficult one to nurse?" Gilmith said as she stood forth from the shadows.

"Uh…uh…she…Gilly…!" Boromir's face was beetroot red. He had been in full flow, bemoaning his lot in life, when he had caught a movement in the shadows. He seldom was embarrassed, but for some reason this woman had the ability to tie his tongue, and have both his feet walk to the left.

"He lacks patience, he is a Hurin, and so what may I say?" Faramir laughed.

"Goodnight, Gilmith?" she suggested.

"Ah, yes, of course, a wise suggestion!" Faramir nodded his head sagely, and stood to his feet, catching his brother's divided attention, he added: "I shall visit again in the morning, brother! Be good! Do not trade your…appendages…frivolously!"

Boromir sat there, trapped, embarrassed, and now his leg was itching again, and he did not wish to grope about under the coverlets for the knitting needle with a female present. Wait, this was Gilly, no point in being precious with her, surely? Oh, but who was he fooling? He had always been like this when Gilmith was around. She brought out the faltering youth he had hidden away from all others. With her he bled out confidence like a pig with its throat slit! How could he request her to go away? He did not wish to hurt her feelings, assuming she had any to begin with, for Gilly was a tomboy even now, and she was two years his senior!

"Scratch, man, you know you want to," Gilmith laughed.

"Want does not enter into it, I _need_ to scratch, and I am demented assuaging this benighted itch!" Once again he tracked the knitting needle, hauling the voluminous nightshirt up to access the top of the cast, and went at the itch like a dog's hind leg expelling a flea. Such moans and grunts rose from the bed that Calgir, passing to check on his patients one final time before lights out, was drawn into the chamber, and there he stood, hands up inside his robe sleeves, grinning.

"Still excluding you, I see, my lady?" Calgir asked mischievously.

"Eru's gilded balls…! Must you creep about in those…brothel keeper's…slippers? Now I have stabbed myself! Likely I am bleeding to death inside this…cage!"

"It is called a cast, and that scenario is not even remotely possible, for the needle belongs to that old biddy Ioreth, and we never let her loose with any object sharper than an elbow!" Calgir laid Boromir's fears to rest.

"How much longer must I endure this torture?" Boromir growled.

"Oh, it shall have to remain in place for several weeks, at the very least," Calgir predicted.

"Cut it off!" Boromir ordered.

"The cast must…!"

"The leg…! Chop the damned thing off!" Boromir demanded.

"Something to make you sleep would be a better solution, don't you think?" Gilmith suggested.

"I shall send a draught straightway," Calgir chuckled, and then he dipped his head, and turned to leave.

"It does not help, for the itch will still be there, and I shall be too fuddled to get the needle against it," said Boromir.

"It is your own fault, falling over in the latrines, indeed!" Gilmith giggled.

"When did I?" Boromir demanded, his itch utterly forgotten.

"After you ate the oysters of course, it is the talk of the…Citadel!" Gilmith was now judging the distance to the doorway.

"What hare-brained imbecile gave out such a story?" Boromir demanded.

"Faramir," she replied. "You did not fall over in the latrine, did you?"

"My horse was shot dead under me and pinned me to the Pelennor!" Boromir growled.

"Ah, then I have no notion what Faramir was doing giving out such a tale. One assumes Lord Denethor was not riding beside you on the Pelennor? He really _did_ eat a rogue batch of oysters, yes?" Gilmith saw the colour bleed out of Boromir's face, and knew immediately this was news to him also!

"Gilmith, send Master Caranthir to me, please, do it now!" Boromir requested.

"I shall go to his apartments now, and bid you a peaceful night, Brother-mir!" A name from the past, familiar and comforting, just like Gilly.

"Gilmith…?"

"Yes?"

Drawing her down to his level, he pressed a kiss to her lips, something he had wanted to do on many occasions, but their childhood friendship had always clouded his judgement.

"I had better fetch the Warden, I ought not to be here quite so late, but I shall come again tomorrow, if you like?" she said.

"Please do and I am sorry I was such a grouch!" Boromir apologized.

"I understand, for you hate to be indisposed. Good night, Boromir."

"Good night, my lady," he said softly, but now his mind was focused elsewhere. What had she meant about his father? Oysters…? Denethor never touched the things, he thought them to be slimy and disgusting to the extent he once had declared they reminded him of Halbeer! Why had he not been told of this? Oh, to spare him, doubtless the deception had been perpetrated with good intentions, but why was it necessary to hide Denethor's condition? Was it life threatening?

"Lady Gilmith explained," said Caranthir, "I shall cut corners, and say your father suffered an apoplexy, that it was a severe attack, but that he is coming back to us in leaps and bounds, and I tested his thought processes with a game of Battle today, and the old coot beat me!"

"Did he so?" Boromir asked.

"The entire point to playing was to test his ability to think out the complex manoeuvres. His speech betrayed him, his brain did not. Peace, child, be still, there is no danger, and you were running a fever, and too ill to be trammelled with such news. Furry-Mir is doing duty as Steward, and doing it with consummate ease. The oysters were a ruse to hide the reality from the Citadel and the Court; it was a stroke of genius, for a more plausible excuse would have sounded like an excuse, but who admits to an embarrassing ailment that ties one to the latrines? We dared not admit that both the Steward, and his heir, both were hors de combat at the same time! I would not lie to you, nephew," said Caranthir.

"No, I know that you would not, I am shocked about our father, he has been working far too much," said Boromir.

"He has been using the Anor Stone," Caranthir said in hushed tones.

"Say it not!" Boromir groaned.

"Something is looking back, and that something, or someone, is breaking Thor's mind. You must stop this practice, Boromir. Before he betrays all our defences, or is pole-axed mid-session!" Caranthir warned his nephew.

"Poor, poor, lord. How I pity him. He feels the threat facing us is somehow a slur upon his Stewardship. He has resorted to this tactic to set his reputation to rights. I will make him see that this is not the way. When may I go to him?" Boromir asked.

"Tomorrow afternoon, I shall have you taken to him in a chair," said Caranthir.

"A crutch shall serve," Boromir mumbled.

"_Here_ I am lord of all! Now, drink this, and allow it to send you to sleep, for we need you to re-take your place in the chain-gang," Caranthir deadpanned.

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

**If I Could**

**By Evendim**

_This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based upon the works of Professor J.R.R. Tolkien_

**Saving Face**

**ooOoo**

Boromir hated to be invalided out of action. It made him feel helpless, out of control, and in order to put his world back upon its axis, he would over-compensate, and as a consequence, ruffle feathers. So it was this morning, as he was being conveyed from the Houses of Healing, to the Steward's apartments, seated in a wheeled chair, being pushed by Faramir who was having altogether too much fun at his brother's expense.

"Mind my leg, you callous little knave!" Boromir growled as the chair brushed past a solid granite column at an alarming speed, just shaving off the merest splinter of wood from the chair's frame as contact was established.

"Oh, enjoy the ride, you shall be slug-a-bed soon enough, you great twerp!" Faramir replied gleefully.

"That will be Your Twerp-ship to you, maggot," said Boromir.

"Maggot is it? I am taking the Audience again today, given there are no other Hurins fit for purpose," Faramir snickered in his brother's ear, not wishing to announce to any wagging ear that their father was still seriously indisposed.

"Oh, and what have I done lately, to exclude me from the Steward's Chair; guzzled a lethal lobster? Did I perhaps plunge headlong down the steps of the Healing Houses in my _wittle_ _wheeled_ _chair_?"

"Do not pout; it makes your eyes piggy," said Faramir.

"Oh, perish the thought. Though, you may have something there. I could always claim to have been knocked to the ground by some panicked hog, escaping the _Shambles_, and broken my other leg as a consequence," Boromir said acidly.

"Or, and I favour this version, personally," said Faramir, "I could let go of your _wittle_ _wheeled_ _chair_ as we pass the Embrasure, and we could count how many 'oliphants' it takes before you strike the Main Gates!"

"You would too, you power-drunk little weasel," Boromir huffed, and shifted in the chair, miffed that no-one took him seriously anymore. Bad enough to be demented by an incurable itch, but worse still to be side-lined like some ancient relative fallen into dotage.

Past the Fountain of the Tree they rumbled, Boromir saluting from force of habit, the guards utterly non-responsive behind their black silk masks, a constant reminder they were not to engage in any conversation whilst on duty guarding the White Tree. A custom dating back to the time of Elendil himself, for they even wore his livery, including their mithril helms with their seagull wings.

"I could do that," said Boromir.

"Look ridiculous, do you mean?" Faramir snickered, "you need not worry on that account, for you look quite ridiculous as it is."

"Oh, and you do not, one supposes, in your ranger rags, and peek-a-boo mask?" Boromir rose to the bait, as always, regular army versus special services, it was always good for a brotherly spat.

"Shall I have Dee fetch your knitting needles?" Faramir asked loudly as they approached their father's apartments, sending the sentries into a silent round of shoulder -shaking sniggering.

"My needle," Boromir shouted, "needle, singular, just like you are giving me, _the_ needle!"

"A man needs a hobby, so why not a productive one, we rangers are always in dire need of socks," said Faramir.

"You are in dire need of a socking!" Boromir opined.

"Oh, is your poor leg paining you again? Or is it your _wittle_ _chair_, we could always find a nice soft cushion?" Faramir pushed this for all it was worth, it was a tonic to him, if to no one else, to rag Boromir like this.

"I shall not be confined to this chair forever, bear that in mind, squab." Boromir warned.

"It hardly is my fault you have a broken leg. If you will guzzle oysters…!" Faramir tsk-ed, and shook his head in despair.

"Oy….!"

"Here he is, father, your first-born, come to lighten your load, and to brighten your day," said Faramir.

"Ha…!" Denethor chuckled, raising his hand in greeting; he was propped upon a pile of goose-feather pillows, moulded to his body, to support him as he re-gained his strength.

"Send him away, sire, somewhere without benefit of communication! Udun's pits shall serve; the left one!" Boromir pleaded.

"Bick…bicker…bicker…!" Denethor chided, but his eyes were shining with love for his sons, not from anger. He looked oddly benign lying there, and it was hard to believe he was the driving power behind Gondor, but it would be an innocent, or a fool, to forget just how powerful this man was, even incapacitated, for he could still convey his wishes by writing with his un-affected hand, and his mind was clear as crystal, and which thought brought to mind a topic Boromir must broach here, and now.

"Run along, little brother, you have a duty to discharge, and father and I have some catching up to do," said Boromir.

"Ah, yes, I do have to robe before I…discharge…my duty, and so I bid you good day, father, an esquire shall convey this one back to his holding pen soon as he is ready, or when you have had enough of his company," Faramir said with a grin.

"Or," said another from behind a carven lebethron wood screen, "when _I_ determine one of them has had enough excitement for one day."

"As you say, Master Caranthir, it is entirely within your discretion," said Faramir as he bowed to his uncle, his father, and brother, and then he grinned cheekily and departed.

"He is enjoying this far too much, entirely," Boromir pouted.

"Oh, he is overcome by the novelty, it soon shall wane, Thor, your medication," said Caranthir as he held out the small silver dosing cup and his brother pulled a face.

"Open wide, you would not like the alternative, trust me," Caranthir threatened.

"You w…would…t…too!" Denethor muttered.

"How well you know me," Caranthir grinned toothily, but the medicine was now ingested, and, to Denethor's surprise, it was not in the least unpleasant.

"Cherry brandy, it overlays the bitterness of the brew, you shall be eager for the next dose, I should not wonder," Caranthir now predicted as he passed the small cup to his Apprentice Master, and dismissed the lesser-ranked healer with a practiced signal. The doors were heard to _snick_ closed beyond the study, out onto the corridor where the sentries were stationed. Caranthir now took Denethor's wrist and told Boromir he was to ignore his presence, that he was bound by his oath to repeat nothing heard by the bedside. He did not mention to Boromir that the dosage he had just fed down the Steward had to be very carefully regulated, for any error could make the difference between a good healing sleep, and a permanent one. It was therefore imperative that the Master remain for a few minutes to ensure no overdose had been accidentally administered. Boromir was unconcerned over the Warden of the Healing Houses being present, the man was, after all, _Thangail_-_Dinen_, a member of Gondor's Secret Service, less active, perhaps, no longer in the field, true, but just as deadly now as when he had been young, virile, and utterly deadly.

"Father, you have been engaging with the Anor Stone," said Boromir. No point in beating about the bushes, it was an established fact, after all.

"Had no…op…op…gah!" Denethor's frustration boiled over and he slammed his one good arm down upon the coverlet in despair.

"There is always an option, sire. This one option _is_ no option! You did nothing wrong, I understand, you are to all intents and purposes 'his' regent; you are in place of the king, and by his own choice, one assumes. But, we are too dilute to take such an artefact from the mists of time and to use it. We are too frail, sire, not at all of the same stature as Anarion or his kin. You are lucky to be alive, dear one!"

"L…luck…luck-y…?" Denethor broke down, and shook his head in negation.

"Then we are lucky, those of us who love you, and would not lose you, and certainly not in the service of some…absentee…from another's House entirely! If you ask me what price I place upon your life, then it is simple, sire. Gondor may be worthy of much, of our service, our loyalty, our very lives, but that is Gondor. But you shall not save our beloved Queen of the South by using the dark crystal. You cannot, father, and so nothing is worth its employment, and certainly not your poor sanity, or your pain. If we cannot defeat the dark one by military means, then 'The One' must come to our aid, or suffer good to fall before evil. Not some object, some throwback, to another age, sire. Not the Seeing Stone. No more, for if you do return to it, I shall see it taken to Dol Amroth, and consigned into the Bay of Belfalas. Do you understand me, sire?"

"Aye…!"

"More importantly, do you _believe_ me, sire?" Boromir demanded.

"Y…yes...!"

"Then be at peace, father of Gondor, and allow your sons to bear some of the burden, especially the little one, for he is most capable, and most willing. I am here to guide him, for he has not been nurtured to take the White Rod as I have, but at need he could do so with competence," said Boromir.

"N…no…! N…no…!" Denethor became extremely agitated at this statement, and Boromir was about to stand his ground, and outline Faramir's sterling qualities, when Caranthir squeezed Boromir's shoulder.

"He does not mean to disrespect your brother; he is terrified Faramir shall succeed him through your _death_! Take his hand, console him, and then permit the drug to do its work, nephew."

"Father, I am here, and I am not going to leave you, now, rest, there is a good lord, for the medicine shall aid you in your recovery," said Boromir.

"For…forgive…bir…" Denethor struggled to form the work in his head, for the drug was a powerful one, "…birth…right!"

"I would not forego being your son for any other title, not even the one which is unclaimed, and which we uphold so selflessly. Have no fear. I know my place, and my duty. The House of Hurin yet serves the Sable Standard. Long live the King's majesty!"

"Where-ere the wretch may be," Caranthir added sotto voce, not quite so concerned with honour; or the constraints of Stewardship at this precise moment in time.

"Ye…yes…! Al…always…our duty…!" Denethor approved, and now his eyelids lowered, and he drifted into sleep.

"Until my lord release me, or death take me," Boromir repeated the vow he had also taken, and now he gazed up into calm, grey, eyes, and he confided in his uncle: "I spoke those same words, to _this_ lord, and I shall never speak them again to another. The twenty and sixth Steward shall be Gondor's last. If she falls into the abyss, she shall not have need of a twenty and seventh. If her King should find his way to her, he may rule without aid from our House."

"I see no reason to argue with you over your choices, nephew!" Caranthir said conspiratorially. "But keep your own counsel, for your father would serve the heir of Isildur, to retain his honour, if for no other reason."

"And shall his honour even be rewarded?" Boromir asked. "Or his dedication, to a cause he does not even support. He is the Steward of the House of Anarion, but he will endure the bearer of Narsil to be restored to the White Throne, because it is the honourable thing to do. I am not half the man my father is, for I would _choke_ upon the words of the declaration!"

"Who among us could blame you? You witness your father fighting for to regain his mobility, and your brother taking on a role he never was trained for, and you yourself are injured answering a call from Eru knows where, for I am convinced your sire was drawn by some malevolent force to summons you both from Osgiliath that black day. It is a miracle you both were not slaughtered upon the Pelennor!"

"Not on _this_ occasion," Boromir said softly, and Caranthir shuddered.

_**The Hall of Kings**_

The Audience was coming to its conclusion, Faramir was eager to be away from this place, and to be with his brother and their sire, for the chances to share any time together were few and far between. Damrod was standing off to one side, waiting for his lord, and he was bored; it showed plainly in his handsome face. Or perhaps it was only obvious to Faramir, who knew his bodyguard so well? Tallis called an end to the business, and it was a pleasant surprise not to hear the Chamberlain's voice piping in with some final request or petition.

"Where is he Tallis; the Slug, Halbeer…?" Faramir asked in an aside, and the blond scribe grinned.

"Apparently a stray oyster found its way into his pie that night in the Merethrond and he has been _discommoded_ ever since," said Tallis.

"Is that so? How strange, that he alone was the recipient of a random oyster, given they were condemned by Master Caranthir, and removed from the menus," said Faramir.

"Some would say it was a tragedy. Others would cheer, and drink a toast to _absent_ oysters, my lord!" Tallis bowed to the Office, not the representative, and turned aside with a grin still dancing upon his lips.

"What has so amused the pen-pusher, then?" Damrod enquired as he stood by Faramir at the dais, one booted foot upon the top step, the other upon the lower. He was as supple as an eel on heat, was Dee.

"He was informing me the Chamberlain has become indisposed of an oyster," said Faramir.

"What a tragedy," Damrod said strait-faced, "I hope that no charges shall follow; for causing cruelty to dumb shellfish?"

"No shellfish were hurt in the telling of this tale, they were imaginary to begin with, and the one that claimed Halbeer came from the recess within Caranthir's ring. I hate to think what mayhem that healer could wreak with a pestle and mortar!" Faramir said drolly.

"I could think of a use for the objects, and they would fetch Halbeer's excretions to a halt into the bargain!" Damrod chuckled.

"You are so without ruth," Faramir stated.

"Utterly ruthless, that is me," Damrod agreed.

"Come you, let us track my brother, he no doubt is free-wheeling about the Citadel even as we speak," Faramir grinned at the pictures forming up inside his head.

"Scaring the horses," Damrod nodded.

"Running over some dowager's dress train," Faramir snickered.

"Clattering along the corridors," said the dark-haired ranger.

"Tipping headlong off the embrasure…hurry," Faramir said with urgency, for there was no end to the damage which Boromir, upon brakeless wheels, could achieve!

ooOoo

In the gardens of the Houses of Healing, Boromir was reaching to break off a single flower, a cream rose, and when he finally broke it free, he presented it shyly to his companion.

"Why, thank you, kind sir," said the equally embarrassed Gilmith. She tucked it into her bodice, wishing to be rid of it before a thorn tore her fingers. Her corduroy riding habit was proof against most weaponry, not in the first stare of fashion, true, but the skirts split cunningly into breeches, and once clear of the city she would exchange her side-saddle for a regular one for the long ride back to Lossarnach.

"I _almost_ wish I could come with you," Boromir sighed.

"Well, how may a lady fail to be flattered with such an ardent declaration," she snorted.

"I meant…if I were hale and hearty I would be obliged to return to Osgiliath, that is all," Boromir backtracked like a crab from a cauldron.

"Ancir is there," she reminded her companion. "He is quite content, he has a plodding nature, much like you, perhaps that is what attracts me to you, no challenge in shaping your character," she teased.

"I beg your pardon," he asked indignantly.

"Not in matters of war, but in matters of the heart, you are a slow learner," said Gilly.

"No, not slow, I am minded to spare you the fate of so many women in these dread times," Boromir said earnestly.

"Well, I would sooner die a widow, than die chaste. I am not young in terms of bearing a child, yet given our Numenorean longevity, I should like to experience motherhood, also, before I experience death. I have shocked you. I make no apology for that. If we go on as we have these many years, you shall have no heir, and I shall have no husband. Would it be such a trial?" Her eyes engaged with his, and they were sea grey, and her hair was raven, the bloodlines of Numenor were flowing in her veins, and yet he cared not a jot for her pedigree, he simply loved her for herself.

"When father is more…when the Steward is available…I shall request his permission for us to be wed!" Boromir vowed.

"Shall we seal our pledge with a kiss?" she whispered, leaning upon the arms of the wheeled chair, the better to access his lips, given he was seated, and as they explored the wonder of kissing, she shifted her weight a little farther to the front, and the chair took off at a great rate, and Gilmith watched in utter horror as her beloved crashed into the lily pond!

What was she to do? Other than wade in and make sure he did not actually drown? She could do little more than support his head above the water, so wrecked with laughter at his predicament! Boromir was so embarrassed at this turn of events he utterly lost the urge to woo, and regained the instinct to remain a bachelor!

"I would not wed you if the Steward ordered me, you are a heartless wench, and you are making mock of me!" He declared.

"Boromir…!"

"Forget that we spoke! I have no feelings for you other than pity!" It was a lie, and she knew it was, but it was out in the air, and she was bereft.

"Then…drown! See if I care!" she retorted and waded out of the pond, and lifting her sodden skirts she ran from the garden, weeping, and distraught.

"Come back, I did not mean it, Gilly…! I do love you; I just do not know how to admit it!" Boromir said miserably.

Somehow he dragged himself out of the pond, and away from danger, he was spattered with weed and debris, and shivering from the deep, cold, water. Lying by the side of the pond he wept, thinking his tears to be disguised amongst the other water saturating him from head to toe. But Faramir, sent running by Gilmith, saw instantly that there was something amiss with his elder brother. So much so, that he refrained utterly from teasing Boromir.

"Brother…?"

"It is nothing, the chair toppled, Gilmith went to fetch aid, she was soaked as she tried to aid me, and I am unhurt, brother!" Boromir insisted.

"Not physically, perhaps, but…!" Faramir sought his brother's eyes for a clue as to what had occurred.

"But what…? We are speaking of Gilly, are we not? I have no interest in her ladyship other than in a brotherly way! Goose…!" Boromir laughed, but the laughter did not reach his eyes, and Faramir would come to recall this conversation down the way, when life had changed for poor Gilmith, and her brother, Ancir, had passed from Arda, and all because of a future clandestine meeting betwixt the brothers' Hurin at Cair Andros, and all compounded by the loss of a small token in the shape of a 'Moon Hare'.

The end

Thanks to all who have read and reviewed, and the tale is picked up, as most of you already know, in 'The Moon Hare', which shall be continued very soon.

Evendim


End file.
